Variation Elements
by Chelsee
Summary: Lives change; the peculiarity of life never minds its own business.
1. VE: Prologue

**The Variation Elements**

**Prologue**

It was the sound of an infant crying that woke him up.

He did not need to open his eyes to know it wasn't morning; his enhanced senses informed him of the smell of night crawlers blindly exploring the garden outside his open window. In the distant trees, surrounding his home, he heard the soft swoops of an owl's wings -- no day bird flew with such deft predatory confidence.

The infant crying was silenced to a gentle coo. He heard his mother's unmistakable voice, feminine but firm, speaking quietly somewhere in the house.

Assuming it to be yet another of the infant's nightly meals -- which were frequent; the child was _insatiable_ -- he rolled over, putting his back to the room, trying to go back to sleep. But his eyes were open, requiring no time to become accustomed to the dark. His pupils naturally and instantaneously dilated or shrunk to varying lighting. 

In the kitchen, his mother was upset. Anguished. He knew it. He smelled it. He felt it.

It hurt his heart.

Someone else was in the house as well. Someone very large; the heavy foot falls shook the little house from top to bottom as their great weight paced from the humble dining room to the kitchen. No concern; It was only Ojisan. His deep voice could also be heard, speaking with Kaasan.

Tension... It was in both of their voices.

The carpet did not stir as bare feet came to rest on it; the mattress did not creak as weight shifted off its support. Floor boards made no sound as feet padded silently across the bedroom to the door, toes separated to cushion each step.

No human ears could have heard the door carefully click open, or in the dark hall have been able to make out the small ghost of a shape creep to the frame of the doorway separating the hall from the tiny dinning room, vaguely lit by light spilling out from the kitchen.

They were still speaking.

"...they rioted, right in front of my castle! Since the scare with Cell, they don't think I'm strong enough to defend the kingdom anymore. Even though the monster didn't even attack us, the village seven miles to the west had been completely demolished. Times are changing so fast, and the people don't care about peace anymore. They want power. And they want youth. And change. Do you know how long I've been ruling that kingdom? I've seen children born, grow old and die... But they're all waiting for me to die now-"

"Otou, that's a lie. You've ruled Fry Pan Mountain peace for decades, and that last war you had with the Saber Tooth Castle kingdom was won with no casualties on our side!"

"That's why they would be willing to except my proposition... one from my own lineage."

"This is crazy. I _remember_ the Blue Monarch kingdom. I _do_. They were peaceful-"

"Dunadar has changed a lot in the past few years... they're increased their military. More than doubled it."

"But I'm not a princess anymore! And anyway, I'm married. I'm too old to-"

"Jondalar is two years older than you, Chi-Chi. And you're not married anymore. You're widowed."

A loud crash made the shadow in the hall jump and dart halfway back to the bedroom before realizing the sound was not in response to its presence. Daring to cross the dark dinning room, hugging the matte black corners or the room, it glanced into the kitchen for a split second before vanishing again. Glimpsed in that brief flash was a new, fist-sized hole in the spice cabinet.

That would have to be repaired in the morning...

A rustle of fabric pulled tight over a bulging stomach filled the room as Ojisan shifted uncomfortably. Kaasan had not replied. 

"... You really shouldn't be so violent when you get angry. Goten could have started crying. Or you could have woken Gohan up. I know this is difficult for you, but you have to understand it's hard for me, too. Goku was always my ideal first choice but..."

The deep voice faded, then became silent for a moment. When it continued, the tone was much gentler.

"Please don't cry, sweet heart. Besides, the people do ask about you a lot. Most of them haven't seen you since your wedding... and there's a generation of people that don't even remember you. Some never even _knew_ you."

"... but Otou, what you're suggesting is... _wrong_ somehow. If King Dunadar _is_ expanding the Blue Monarch Kingdom by force-"

"He's calling it the Blue Monarch Empire now, sweet heart. They've become imperial. Not 'King Dunadar'. 'Emperor Dunadar.'"

"... If _Dunadar_ really _is_ using military force to take over _peaceful_ kingdoms, why would you ever want to make a deal with him and his family? Especially one that involves _me!_"

"Because Fry Pan Mountain is now on their western border We're the last unconquered kingdom left; to their north and east are the Mitoji Mountains, and their south is nothing but the Emerald Sea... They want Fry Pan. Not just the mountain but our entire kingdom, our land, our crops, and our people... all of it. And... Chi-Chi, we have no weapons, and we have no military. Nothing do defend ourselves with. At all. A decade ago, we had three cannons, but they hadn't been used in years; back then, I was certain that Goku was my definite new heir... and with little Gohan already born, it seemed so perfect, so I _sold_ our cannons. Chi, do you understand that I _sold_ my kingdom's only weapons?!

"I used to fight all the wars myself... it wasn't much effort when I was young. People feared me; they heard the stories. Back then, to foreign kingdoms and beyond, I was known as a giant ruthless _cannibal_. And with Muten Roshi-sama's training and my ax, no one had the guts to battle me. I was young. I was powerful. I was fearsome. But now... Chi, I've hung up my ax; it hurts my arthritis to swing it. My callouses are even gone..."

The shadow glanced into the kitchen again, just enough to make out half of Ojisan's back as he looked quietly, helplessly, down at his own large tanned hands. From the dark, sharp eyes saw that, indeed, though the flesh of those sinewy hands were still rough and abrasive from a life time of toil, the rock-hard callouses that had once textured his palms and inner digits had healed over. He had lost his power.

The shadow backed out of the door way and leaned against the darkened wall. The scent of hopelessness and loss made the air feel stale and lifeless.

"-had hoped that one day you and _Goku_ would precede me and take the throne... He had such a good heart, and was strong enough to even take _my_ place..." 

Silence followed. Sensing no great movement, the keen eyes returned to the corner of the lit doorway to see Kaasan looking out the window, a bundle of black hair rooting at her breast, "He...," she was quiet for a while more; the shadow smelled embarrassment coming off her, "I was widowed before and he came... back. Otou, he came _back_, if he-"

"You cannot think that way. I'm sorry, but you cannot think that way. In my time as in most people's lives death means death. You can't get used to the dead not staying that way; it's wrong. Goku was an incredible man who could do anything, but in death he has no more power than any other of us... humans."

"I know! Otou, I know all that. Take Goten-chan a moment, I need to blow my nose."

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, but dabbed her eyes instead of blowing her nose. Finally, her voice low and constricted -- more docile than normal, giving in -- she said to the wooden floor, "You can't ask me to make this decision. It's not fair; to agree, I would be a bad wife. To refuse, a bad daughter. It's not fair. I... perhaps... Otou, you can't ask me to _make_ a decision like this."

"I'm not asking you to. I know, I know it's hard. I wouldn't have felt any different were it me after your mother died. So I know I can't ask you to decide."

"You can't mean all of this," Panic and a tang of bitter hope, as though in her exhaustion she half-believed it was untrue. A bad dream. "You can't... seriously..."

"I have decided for you. As I had the last time. As both king of my kingdom and your sole living guardian." His voice dropped the official tone to it, adding as one mature adult speaking to another, "It's for the best of all of us. It could mean peace, with you as partial heir to both Fry Pan and Blue Monarch, as well as you could... try to move on. Jondalar is quite handsome, isn't he? And I've always heard he was nice. A polite young man... a good... father figure."

Okaasan did not reply again. Silence passed. Keen eyes in the dark narrowed in pain as he felt his mother's heart sink.

Finally, "Hai, Otou. You... _did_ decide the first time, and I shall never regret it. If I'm even half as lucky this time around..."

Eager to encourage, Ojisan added, "This will be good news for all; Jondalar has been asking since you were thirteen. If I hadn't already met Goku by that time-"

"Goten is already asleep, Otou. It's late." A pause, "He will abide by our rules, won't he? Has he agreed to challenge?"

"He already has, honorably and in person. He... might arrive sooner." A rustle of paper held in large, thick fingers, "Here's the challenge. Do you want-"

The night-silence, consisting of the distant chirp of crickets and polliwogs, was interrupted by the sound of tearing paper, the sounds following suggesting the torn pieces were being balled up, followed by a soft thump and the shifting of a plastic garbage lining, suggesting it had been thrown with some force into the rubbish bin.

"I'll...," Ojisan sounded less enthusiastic than before, "I'll inform Emperor Dunadar and Prince Jondalar myself that... his... challenge has been... a-accepted." A restrained sob started, then ended, buried and muffled in the thick hair of the baby she held. "Go to sleep."

The shadow glanced back into the room to watch Ojisan stand and put a huge hand on either of Okaasan's narrow shoulders, drawing her and the infant into a hug that almost caused her to vanish into his large body, stroking her dark hair, her back, his beard, peppered with white and gray, snagging a few of her fine, straight strands which stretched the distance between them as he pulled away from her, kissing her forehead, "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

Taking the cue, the shadow outside the kitchen glided back through the dark to the bedroom, slipped inside and leaned against the closed door, head low, hands overlapped in front of thighs.

Waiting occurred in that bedroom, without movement, as the sense of Okaasan and Ojisan moved to their places of rest and after a long time -- longer for Okaasan, who cried for quite a while first, the quiet, dignified, composed cry of a princess -- they both succumbed to sleep.

Count to two hundred first. Listening with those sharp ears to make sure both loved ones were breathing evenly. Then it emerged again, a shadow bleeding into the other surrounding shadows, it slipped past sleeping Ojisan on the couch, his horns catching a small glint of the starlight through the window, into the kitchen, with its wooden floors. To the trash can.

Eyes pierced the darkness, not having to strain to make out the crumpled ball of wadded paper, sitting beside an equally crumpled envelope, sitting atop all the other garbage.

Deft fingers picked it out, flicking away pits of coffee grounds, then, catlike and swift, it vanished back into the dark.


	2. VE: 1 Time and Unforeseen Circumstances

**The Variation Elements**

**1.1 Time and Unforeseen Circumstances **

_"The swift do not have the race, nor the mighty ones the battle, nor do the wise also have the food, nor do the understanding ones also have the riches, nor do even those having knowledge have the favor; because time and unforeseen circumstances befall them all."  
-- Ec 9:11 _

"He's adorable, Chi-Chi-san. Looks just like his father." Wisps of blue hair merged with strands of black; two women put their foreheads together to better view the object of their attention: a tiny, black-haired baby. His fat fists shook at the air. The infant, nested comfortably in his mother's arms, nursed energetically at her breast with soft, contented cooing sounds, "He eats so well! How old did you say he was?"

The younger woman readjusted the infant in her lap, lashes against her cheek as she admired him, "Two months." She winced, pushing her lips together, "He really _does_ have a strong suck... it still hurts sometimes. I forgot how difficult it was to get used to, though I imagine it couldn't have been any more difficult than with Gohan-chan..." She glanced up at her older son, seated on the couch of the spacious living room, legs crossed, his fingers overlapping one another on his knee. His gaze was quietly directed toward his hands. She smiled fondly, then turned her attention back to the woman kneeling beside her chair, "I must be getting old, Bulma-san. I really do think so sometimes. I had to stay in bed for the last _month_ of my pregnancy; I couldn't even move. If Gohan-chan weren't such a help, I would have been utterly lost."

Bulma did not bother to look up as she placed her hand on the baby's already full head of hair; she thoughtfully tried to smooth the baby's wild locks down, then looked up as though she'd just heard the mother speak, "You're not old at all, Chi-Chi-san. You shouldn't say that, especially around me. It's rude; I'm your senior, so if you're old, I'm still older." She put a finger to the corners of her eyes, self consciously hiding wrinkles that only she was able to see.

Continued, "We're in our prime, still. We're not girls any more, we're _women_." Spoken with proud conviction. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror? I don't know how you do it, but you're still as beautiful and fresh as you were on your wedding day... well, your cheek bones are a bit more noticeable... and you're a little taller when you stand up." She smiled for a moment, in fond memories, nodding her head as she said as a side note, "You _were_ very young back then, when you got married... Still a child, really. Son-kun, too." She paused, sharp blue eyes searching to make sure it didn't hurt the young mother to talk about her deceased husband, then continued, "How old are you, exactly? Twenty-nine? Thirty?"

"Twenty-eight... in four months." Noticing that the infant in her lap had disengaged, she pulled her shirt back down and set him up into a sitting position, patting his back to coax him into burping, "Look, two months and he already holds his head up like it's nothing."

"Trunks could, too... though he _still_ has less hair. He's two now, you know? And now Kuririn's got more hair than him. I was bald, too, when I was a baby..." She paused in mild though ultimately affectionate irritation, "But we never can tell what's normal can we? No books to read on it. If I pester him enough Vegita tells me what _Saiya-jin_ infants are like -- as little as he knows about it; I don't think he's ever seen a baby up close before. But that's about as much help as knowing about human babies. No one knows _anything_ about these half-Saiya-jin-half-Human children; Gohan is the first ever, and already it's obvious that Trunks and even Goten are different from him _and_ one another." She sighed and shook her head twice at some memory or other, watching the infant wrap its small fingers around her thumb, wincing, "They're remarkably stronger than humans, even as infants..."

The sound of shifting vinyl sounded as Gohan suddenly readjusted himself in response to the comment.

"Oh, don't mention that," the young mother said irritably, "It would be easier if he _were_ just a normal human baby, " she made a face as she realized she'd never had, and never _would_ have, a 'normal' baby, even if Goku hadn't... "He eats more than three babies already; I have to buy him formula as well as feed him breast milk; he sucks me dry, then wants more half an hour later. I can't produce fast enough..."

Bulma shook her head, "You amaze me. It hurt way too much to nurse Trunks... I tried a few times; you can say whatever you want about getting used to it, but I'm a busy woman and don't have time to lift up my shirt and feed a hungry baby every time he cries for it. It felt like he was trying to suck _blood_ out of me. I put him right on the bottle."

"I did research on it... statistics say babies that are breast fed are more intelligent. The concentration for their brains on sucking, swallowing and breathing all at the same time helps them with coordination... And helps them to speak, too; strengthens their jaw muscles."

The blue haired woman didn't seem to be paying much attention to what was being said, watching instead as the baby's eyes traveled upward to finally focus on the ceiling, glittering in the light pouring in from the windows and from the desk lamp on the table next to them. She quietly murmured, "And to have given birth to him at home..._ intentionally_! You're either crazy, or one tough lady."

"I had a midwife." Chi-Chi said hurriedly, not entirely comfortable with complements, a frown appearing between her brows. She smiled as she handed the baby to Bulma, who had been gesturing that she would like to hold him by extending her arms, "And Gohan-chan helped every step of the way. I don't know where he got them, or how he was ever able to afford them, but all during my pregnancy he bought endless books on caring for and delivering babies; he would read parts of them to me when I was bedridden... 

"And when I started having the _real_ contractions he took the car and drove all the way to the midwife's house to get her -- I didn't even know he could drive! --, and got her back up the mountain within half an hour-"

"He could have done it in five minutes, maybe less, if he'd flown," Bulma replied critically, her expression sharp and severe suddenly, not looking at the tot bouncing and drooling on her knee, "Why didn't he?"

"I told him not to, of course! She only lives four mountains away, and sees many of our neighbors -- they go to her as a doctor sometimes. I just finally convinced everyone that it _wasn't_ my son and husband mixed up in the Cell games," he voice lost quite a bit of inflection as the topic grew dangerously close to one of the tenderest of subjects for her, "I don't want people to think any member of my family are _freaks,_ which is how people will think of it; we deserve just as much respect as any other family, maybe even more so." The sharp turn of her chin suggested the noble blood she carried; she was, after all, still princess of Fry Pan Mountain, even if her role was currently inactive.

Bulma did not bother to argue; Chi-Chi had a rather different variety of what was respectable and what wasn't. Still, the older woman couldn't help but wonder how this woman failed to see the ability to nuke an entire planet with the gesture of a hand as unimpressive. The topic had been argued so many times before it was worn thinner than tissue paper already.

Still, it was a relief to have another woman around. Another woman who had lived with a Saiya-jin for even longer than she had. A woman who had already raised a successful hybrid baby, and was moving onto a number two. There was comfort in seeing another infant that was like her own.

Because as much as she would have liked to claim otherwise, there were quite a few times that she _did_ feel as though she were raising something freakish and inhuman. Because that was exactly half of what he was.

* * *

Hmm.

He stood still for a moment, looking down at his feet, down at the ground that was now failing him. Were he not accustomed to the abrupt changes, and were he not entirely inhuman, his body would have gone into shock or possibly exploded as the gravity in the room dropped from 500xg's to 1xg's.

"Piece of crap." He stalked over to the machine in the center of the room where the digital face was flashing 00g. He looked around at the multifaceted equipment, sharp eyes trying to find some obvious reason for it to be malfunctioning: Sparks or smoke or flashing warning lights. Fire. Something. Anything that could hint at where the error lay. There was nothing.

"Ksh," he made the sound through his teeth.

He considered dropping everything and leaving. Maybe training in the mountains somewhere. The indoors were too stuffy, anyway; the air was recycled through that absurd"air conditioner", created because humans were too frail to survive even mild heat. Were Kakarotto still alive, he might very well have gone off to battle him for a while. At least the other Saiya-jin hadn't minded such trivial things as temperature, or conditioned air. (The air was annoying enough conditioned, but the extensive gravity of the chamber often made him light headed if he remained too high up for very long as all the air molecules were tugged downward.)

The door hummed as it opened, allowing him to exit. He stormed down the hall, arms gathered and crossed over his chest.

Kakarotto. That bastard. They never got to finish their fight.

How long ago was it now, since he'd died? It was not a good question to ask himself; he had a terrible sense of time, even for important dates. Like when the Cell incident had occurred. It... hadn't been a year yet, had it? Trunks had been born... a year (?) before the Cell games, and now he was... two? That was no help. He didn't know how old Trunks was, much less when he was born, so the comparison wouldn't help chronologically.

It wasn't that he didn't _care_; he just couldn't come up with a good excuse for asking. He just wasn't that curious. Honestly, he didn't know how old anyone was. Not Bulma. Not even himself for sure (he'd lived an inconsistent life; each planet or satellite or ship that he lived on had different ways of keeping track of time, as well as different days, and different lengths of days, he could not know how many years he had lost... or gained.) He certainly didn't know the ages of any of the Chikyuusei-jin. Not Kakarotto...

It was Gohan's age that perplexed him the most recently, for he was personally witnessing him grow up. When he'd first met him, he was... well... rather small. As time went by he remained small, but grew progressively less small. At no specific time his nose seemed to have narrowed and turned more downward, like Kakarotto's; the baby fat in his cheeks had receded to show a relatively pointed chin, more narrow of a face. So slow you don't notice for a while, but his arms had gotten longer, thinner. His whole body.

Besides himself, he'd never seen a child grow up before. There weren't many (any?) children in Freeza's army, and even if there had been he would likely have wanted little to do with them.

It was different from Saiya-jin, anyway. His own people grew much slower than Gohan or these other humans did (at a more consistent growth that continued from birth until they reached their limit at the age of about twenty-five.) There was none of these "growth spurts", which Bulma had explained to him (using far more words than necessary) when he asked why Kakarotto's son was so very suddenly getting quite a bit taller. It struck him as offensive somehow that human children were taller than Saiya-jin children.

Would Trunks grow up in the same way Gohan had? With the growth and the extending of body in very sudden, sometimes even painful spurts? The Trunks from the future had gotten taller in the "years" they spent in that peculiar, delightful yet torturous room of the Kami's.

As he turned a corner in the empty hall, he wondered how old Mirai Trunks had been, or how old he had ended up being. If there ever had been a certain age, it had grown skewed in the years they had _lost_ in the Room of Spirit and Time. 

It was all pissing him off. Goddam machine. Goddam gravity-altering machine.

He did not have to search to find his mate; her life chi lured him from anywhere on the planet like the scent of some succulent dish. Were it a few years early -- time again! cursed time he couldn't specifically recall passing -- he may have behaved differently. A newly mated Saiya-jin, after all, developed a libido the size of a full moon for the first few months of their joining.

But now, he was too angry to get aroused. The only time he didn't mind losing was the time spent productively: Training.

He stood in the doorway of the spacious living room, arms folded over his chest, leaning one shoulder against the door frame, more as a communicational posture than to rest his weight. It had taken quite a few years to develop a way to express himself without the use of a tail.

Kakarotto's mate and sons were visiting... none of the three's ages he knew, though he should have at least remembered how old the youngest was. Bulma wouldn't shut up about it once it (he? Yes, it was a male; he could scent it from across the room) was born.

The dark haired female was seated on the davenport with her sleeping baby on her lap; her eyes were closed, head back. 

And across the room, by the window with all its bright sunlight:

"-should have mentioned it earlier, Gohan-chan," Bulma was saying to Gohan, handing him a small, white, circular object -- the Dragon Radar, he recognized -- as she went on, "I would have gotten it out for you first thing."

"Gomen, Bulma-san. I didn't...," the boy didn't seem to have any intention of finishing his sentence; the kid only seemed to say the bare minimum of what needed saying. It was irritating how low of a tone he used.

Bulma shook her head, "Kid, I've known you nearly your whole life. You should feel comfortable asking me things by now. You're practically a second son. No one else seems to mind just demanding things..." The last part of her statement was mumbled with fond irritation. She bitched a lot, damn but how he knew, but deep down he was all but certain she liked being needed. 

"Hai..." 

Irritation mounted within him as he watched Gohan put the radar in his breast pocket. Something about that boy and that radar...

"What do you want it for anyway? Got a wish already?"

Kakarotto's woman opened her eyes sleepily, blinked a few times and sat up, lowering her face to sniff her baby's diaper. Humans had such a poor sense of smell; even from where he stood across the room he could tell the infant had urinated on itself.

"No, nothing like that," the boy seemed genuinely embarrassed that he would be accused of wanting to _use _the dragon balls. "I just want to find Tousan's four-star-ball."

Oh. Yes. The brat had called it a watch. Lied, called the fucking radar a watch. On Namek... some time back. It had to have been quite a while ago; it was only the second time he'd ever met the boy. Quite a few years, by now, he was sure. His lack of time awareness went two ways, however; what happened years ago felt like yesterday. So, yes. The then-brat. He'd lied through his teeth. Stolen his final dragon ball. And gotten completely away with it.

"You sound just like your father. People can argue all they want about the dragon balls belonging to Dende, but I still say they belong to the Son family."

Goddam mother fucking lied. But it wasn't rage that he felt so much as resigned frustration. In a human it would be an sensation called depression. But Saiya-jin didn't feel depression; their version was too electric and volatile

"Not all of them, Bulma-san... they don't belong to anyone. But the four-star I think _did_ belong to Tousan. It would be safer, anyway, to protect one of the balls just in case."

"That's... oh. Vegita."

"Ksh." The sound was low enough that likely only Gohan heard it (and he had doubts about even that, human as he was.)

How was it that they hadn't even felt him. Not even Bulma, his mate. Yes, true she was one hundred percent, pure bred, full-meat human with all the limitations involved... Dammit, Kakarotto's mate would have seen him had she only looked up. Gohan had failed to so much as scent him, which was a better thought than that he _had_ been aware of him and had chosen to ignore him.

There had been a time, not much more than half a decade ago, that entire planets had trembled at his approach. Nearly all of the warriors around him, Freeza's men, species he never even bothered learning, knew him by name. And they feared him. They jumped to their feet when he entered the room. He had been a slave, with no alliances and no friends and no planet, but he had power over people, and he was universally respected. He held status. 

Now, he was free. He had a planet and a mate and a son and quite a few allies, now -- some of which would be positively tickled if he ever thought of them as friends; hell, Kakarotto might very well _have _ been a friend -- but for all of it, he paid a price.

He had lost their fear. Possibly their respect, even.

Damn it all straight to hell..

"Your gravity machine has failed. Again." He was not in the mood to argue. He just wanted it fixed so he could lose time and strain himself and not have to think about passing seconds, minutes, years, lives. Or about the dead. Or those that would someday be born. Or Earth or the revelations of character brought forth by Cell or the utter willingness in which Kakarotto died (the bastard) or Trunks' upbringing, or Gohan's unnerving complacency or... anything. Anything except power. His power. And the muscles under his skin and his chi and his bones straining against gravity, even though he hated training inside, away from air and sun and sky.

Bulma, his ever devoted mate, sighed and for the sake of her company pretended to be exasperated -- which offended his mood -- and looked across the room at the female with the infant, "Vegita, I have company. I can't just...," she finally met his eyes, seemed to catch on at long last that he was in _no _mood to be denied. "... Gohan-kun? You've read sections IV through XXI of chapter 16 in the _Capsule Corporations Production_ book, haven't you?"

Oh hell. She was thinking...

"... Hai." The boy said after a minor pause, then quoted, "'Maintenance of Devices Involving Simulated Gravity In and Out of Orbit'... I think." His own hesitation proved he, too, wasn't entirely keen with the directly the female was leading him. Under his long sleeves, which were very loose, covering even beyond his wrists -- were they intentionally so lose so that they might hide his muscles? Hide his power? He wouldn't put it past Kakarotto's mate -- there was a twitch of tensing. It wasn't fear -- anymore, though there had been a time when he all but quivered when the two were alone together, as he well should have.

Ung. He did not want this. He attempted scowling enough to show to his human mate how strongly he disapproved -- fuck, couldn't these humans read _any_ sort of body language?! _How_ had these creatures come to be the dominant species of the planet?

"Would you be a sweet boy," his woman went on, either oblivious or ignoring his negative expression, "and try fixing the gravity machine for Vegita?" 

Her human ignorance again failed her, keeping her from noticing or scenting the boy's obvious discomfort, both not wanting to obey but incapable of disobeying; it was perplexing and frustrating how all the battles Gohan had been through had somehow simultaneously increased his physical power and destroyed his power of will.

"Of course he will," Kakarotto's woman said simply, smiling, not implying it to be an order so much as a statement. It simply _would_ happen. "Gohan-chan is such a good boy, he'd be glad to help."

"I didn't... Hai, Bulma-san. Kaasan." The boy crumbled without resistance. Gave in to two human women, who he could have eradicated without a gesture. No surprise there. Were situations entirely different, he would have made a good slave and a better whore.

What self-respecting person, after all, wouldn't want someone who couldn't say no? 

* * *

It was a heinous color of yellow, even as rubber gloves went. Even in the dark. Even if the rubber gloves were all that stood between himself and certain electrocution. The wires in his hands were alive, one even sparking at his unprotected face.

He was extremely aware that his clothes were inappropriate; his starched, immaculate white shirt with blue embroidered hems -- hand done by his mother -- and dark blue dress pants, perfectly creased down the front of each leg, were painfully susceptible to the dirty scooter his back rested on. The scooter he had needed to roll his head, shoulders and torso under here.

He twisted the wires together and was momentarily startled when his chest sank on its own, forcing his breath out, as the gravity around him increased, his hair plastering to his forehead and tugging at the back of his scalp.

_Idiot, forgot to turn the power off before fixing it; you would be dead right now if you weren't_...

Yeah, if he wasn't. But he was. So it was no big deal.

Rolling the scooter back out of the cramped quarters beneath the central gravity machine, he pulled the gloves off, brushing at his pants -- which he didn't like from the beginning; it seemed the nicer the clothes he wore, the more flimsy and tight around the knees and elbows they were. Nothing his mother purchased for him to wear was nearly as comfortable or durable as his gi... though currently he had no gi that fit him.

He would have to make one sometime. After all, it had nearly been a year since...

"The problem," he said as he stood up, eyes on the clipboard he'd been checking maintenance with, checking off areas with an attached pen, "is the overuse of chi. The temperatures get so hot in here they melt the soft rubber insulation around the wires. I'm sorry, Vegita-san, but using chi this close to hu... mans-," he hated having to refer to humans as different than himself or a few select people he knew, "-is dangerous anyway. Until Bulma-san finds a better way to contain large amounts of power..."

He happened to glance up and notice the extravagantly unencouraging expression of the man he was speaking to, and he went on halfheartedly, "You'll... um... have to talk to her, I guess." He smiled nervously and gave a little nod and began to head for the door, not turning his back on Vegita -- not out of suspicion, but because he'd learned through painful experience that the Saiya-jin found it offensive. 

"How old are you?" The question lacked the common curiosity one would associate with it.

Caught off guard, he paused, "I'm sorry?"

Oop. Vegita-san never repeated himself, as the cuff that followed reinstated. It didn't particularly hurt -- not in relativity to other blows he'd received. The man may not have been as strong as him, but he certainly could have hit much harder. Boy, could he ever. It was more out of instant reaction: The Saiya-jin did not like it when he acted too timid, or spoke in too quiet of a tone. He never had.

"Gomen," he apologized, and quickly straightened his posture -- Vegita-san always was doubly irritated with him when he acted too 'weak' or 'human' or 'tamed. It wasn't even entirely a bad thing; it struck him more as a warped sort of concern Saiya-jin might have for him. He didn't like seeing him humbled. "I'm eleven, Vegita-san. _Juuichi-sai_... I think." When he saw the man's cheek twitch, he quickly explained in as short of sentences as possible: "My birth certificate says I am eleven. I am... not sure if I should count the year-," _Day?_ "-I spent with Tousan in the Room of Spirit and Time." 

He considered asking 'why?', but wasn't feeling up to coming up with excuses for the possible resulting bruises to Okaasan.

The pen attached to his clipboard tore itself free of its cord and struck the ground, shattering. Oh. Right. The gravity was still turned on to... (he glanced)... 500gs. He had long since adapted to it. Noting that his shirt's shoulder seams were slowly coming apart under the strain -- cheap, flimsy dress clothes... -- he said, "Well... good luck with your training, Vegita-san." As he backed toward the door.

When the airtight lock of the room's only exit popped open, the man's voice followed him out, "Worry about your own training, Gohan, don't think I haven't noticed-"

The door had automatically closed.

Taking a deep breath to readjust to the new, much lighter gravity, he shook his head and mumbled, "Hai," to the empty hall.

He wandered the halls for a while, not particularly interested in the conversation Okaasan and Bulma-san were likely having; they usually tended to forget he was in the room and often talked about him freely, though that was partially his own fault. He tended to push his chi below delectability out of common habit, which caused even human's natural chi-sensing abilities (the sense that told them "I'm not alone in this room" or "I'm being watched...") to not pick him up. If they didn't look directly at him it was easy to fail noticing at all, considering they had too poor of hearing or sense of smell to note him in any other way.

What he _really_ wanted to know about was the peculiar midnight conversation he'd heard Kaasan and Ojisan having last week. It seriously perturbed him... Downright set the hairs on his neck and scalp on edge with adrenaline; the urge to fight, to protect, to kill threats. Especially after reading...

But there was nothing he could do about it now. He instead decided to head down to the first floor's indoor garden and animal reserve. Perhaps Bulma's father could help him find some good shrubs to plant. It was fall in the mountains, and fall was by far the best season to plant during.

He allowed himself to drift on thoughts of the garden he could grow in the lot of land he had managed to convince Kaasan to give him, promising to allot part of the land for a vegetable garden. 

The prospect of saving money on groceries had earned him praise and, not only the land he had asked for, but all the land around their house save save the more gravely north side of the house where the rugged mountain road broadened out into a limestone gravel parking space where visitors could park their cars, or put up capsule houses if they had any.

Perhaps some columbines... 

... they were hearty flowers...

... mountain flowers...

... kami, he was worried sick.

* * *

She hovered over her chair, looking across the table at him, quiet and hopeful as he took a first sip of the soup she had made for him. From scratch. His tanned hand held the spoon almost daintily as the steaming broth was raised to his lips, to that not-quite-perfect face, though she rarely noticed the scars anymore. The false tooth he was forced to get when he was still in his teens had yet to become a different color than the rest.

It would have cost a fortune if they had been forced to pay for it back then. It was a good thing his... girlfriend... of that time had been quite rich. And quite rich with pain and heart ache as well, if she dared to think it.

"How is it?" She finally ventured as he paused after the first sip, "I never can tell if I put too much salt in..."

"Puar, it's delicious," he said at just the right moment, so that he sounded neither patronizing nor as though he were lying. "I don't know what I would ever do without you."

Pleased, she drifted down to the soft feather cushion kept on her chair -- he had bought it for her as a surprise once, one of the many "just because I felt like doing something for you" gifts that he brought home for her ever couple of weeks -- and tucked her tiny blue paws beneath her body, her tail twinning around her side until it was beneath her chin. He always said she looked like a loaf of bread with ears when she relaxed like this. As she listened to his spoon clink in his bowl, and the quiet _s-s-s-sip_! sounds he made as he ate, she squeezed her eyes shut with contentment and began to purr to herself.

Her ears pricked when he moved his dish to the sink and washed it, but pretended to doze as any good cat would do as he busied himself around the house for a time. Just when she was tempted to offer assistance, she felt his warm hands scoop her up and lift her still-curled body to his shoulder. She scrambled onto his shoulder, then onto the top of his head, careful to not accidentally unsheathe her tiny claws -- she liked it when he had short hair like this, as it was easier to sit way up here.

She continued to purr as he collected up his duffle bag and pulled on his tennis shoes. They didn't talk, but they were old enough friends to be comfortable with silence between them. He left his bachelor's apartment with his bag, and she had to remind him to lock the door to make sure thieves wouldn't be enticed to enter, and perhaps find the baseball-sized amber sphere with the two crimson stars suspended in the middle of it they kept hidden in the back of their freezer. They had found it quite by accident while taking a stroll together through the park; she had seen it glittering under a bush.

It wasn't until they had gotten into their hover car and begun driving that she mentioned what was on her mind:

"They sent a second letter, Yamcha-san," she hovered from his shoulder and down to the passenger seat, buckling her seat belt, "They must think you simply did not received the first. Most people run after getting just one like that, I'm guessing. Buckle your seat belt, please." 

He sighed, and even that sound was nice in her sensitive ears; he really had a nice sounding voice, and would probably have been quite a successful singer if he wasn't so drawn to action, "I'm not going to fight in any war, Puar. I don't want to have to run from something like this, but I really don't want to fight anymore. Not with monstrous aliens from another planet, not with other humans, either," he then added when she cleared her throat, "Or any other sentient animals on the planet."

"It's a legitimate draft notice, sir. The army is still pressing onward and as long as the Northern Wildcats occupy the city we _are, _as residents, required to obey them. If we're to remain legal, that is." There was mild humor on her voice; she was soft spoken and polite and had a good sense of right and wrong, but, as did the man she lived with, had little honest respect for authority. "Perhaps it's time to move on again..."

He nodded his head thoughtfully, "Sounds like a plan to me... though I'm not sure where we'll go to, anymore." The scar that ran over his eyebrow and down beneath his eye puckered slightly as he wrinkled his brow, "It seems we've had to leave every city we've visited for the past year now. Since the Cell scare people seem to be crazier. Maybe it's a new zest for life -- I still can't believe they named that city 'Satan City'... -- but even the people that used to be helpful are out busting one another's balls over stupid little things..."

"Likely they realize how close they came to dying, and, more aware of their mortality, are trying to accomplish everything they can _while _they still can."

"Even if it means stepping all over whoever gets in their way. I get ya." He huffed at his steering wheel as he pulled an illegal U-turn, cutting off a long line of people waiting at the intersection. As honks and angry shouts hailed behind him he chuckled, "It's a shame, though, that everyone had to get like this. So suspicious." 

She had squirmed out of her seat belt to climb the back of her chair and watch the traffic accidents that had occurred behind them, "Yeah. Harder to take advantage of."

Though they were no longer bandits -- and hadn't been since meeting Goku -- it was still their running joke that the common man were witless sheep, and the two of them were the predators. His laughter trailed out the window and carried along behind them as he pulled back into their apartment complex's driveway, not even bothering to capsulate their car as he climbed out, her floating closely at his shoulder, made their way swiftly to their flat.

"Pack light," he said with a grin, and she already knew what he meant. They were leaving again, possibly to never return. It was a decision made just that fast. He was still desert nomad at heart, and thrived not on location, but on settling down as many places as possible. And she loved it. His spontaneity made life so thrilling, and in the past year, with no need to train or worry, they had been able to travel much more, and have more time between the two of them (especially with the girlfriend now permanently gone. No more games from her.) It was almost... romantic. Platonic romance. 

She only needed a scarf to carry her two necessities in: A crudely carved wooden cat, which he had made for her nearly two decades ago, when they had begun their first budding relationship, him a feisty nomadic adolescent boy -- often in some form of trouble or other -- her, a studious member of the shapeshifting academy. And the 14k gold collar, studded with five perfect blue sapphire stones, and a tiny crystal bell that made a soft and quiet tinkling sound when it was moved. He had bought it for her seven years ago, right before his departure to train for the coming Saiya-jin, using quite a bit of the money he'd made as a baseball star.

They would also have to buy a spider plant to bring along before they left the city, as she had a constant habit of chewing spider plants when they traveled. It helped keep an upset stomach under control when she got motion sickness.

He reentered the living room attaching his sword to his hip, with a bundle of clothes cast over his shoulder. He grinned at her before going into the kitchen and returning with the dragon ball, slipping it into a side pouch of his belt. Grinning, he said, "I've made up my mind."

"Where to this time, sir?"

He scooped her up and she remained cradled in his arms, eyes squeezed together in pleasure, him stroking between her ears, her tail swinging beneath her like a clock pendulum. He didn't bother to lock the door of his apartment this time, "Why not head back to my old desert lair for a while?"

She glanced up at him, grinning widely and squeak-mewling with delight, "That's a wonderful idea! It is high time we get away from civilization for a while." She paused skeptically for a moment, licking her nose with a white tongue, "Would we also go back to-"

"We're no longer thieves, my furry accomplice! No need to go back to that lifestyle!"

She climbed off his shoulder as he loaded their 'luggage' into the car's trunk, "So we'll be picking a new alias again?" He handed her a deck of shuffled identification cards, all with different names and dates of birth and current residents, but the same face: His. 

Whey they had struck it rich in baseball, he had proved to be quite competent with large sums of money, sectioning it off and putting it into multiple accounts all over the world under a plethora of different names. It was part of the fun they had; with each he tried to alter his appearance, cutting and restyling his hair and wearing entirely different brands of clothes (it was also a way of keeping folks from recognizing him as either a ball player, a Tenkaichi finalist, or one of "those crazy people" who had fought Cell, as, with the help of that Satan man, they had become known as.)

When it came to renting a single's apartment, she did a very impressive job of playing a _non_-sentient feline, mewling and purring on his lap during interviews. It was, after all, much cheaper to pay for pets than to pay for a two-person apartment. They slept in the same bed, anyway.

"Miguel Antonion?" She offered, holding up an identification card and grinning, "Sounds Spanish."

"Sounds fine, anyway," he said chuckling, unfolding a large map to find the best route to get to the desert, "Hey, we'll be passing right over the Paouzu Mountains! Why not visit the Sons on the way? Last I heard Chi-Chi was pregnant... she must have had her kid by now!" His face then drifted into one entirely less merry, "Shame Goku's not around... his new kid is gonna miss meeting one hell of a guy."

Her purring stopped, and her large pointed ears drooped, "We'll all miss him." Her ears then reperked, "We'll just have to make sure the new little kid knows what sort of a father she had!"

"She?" He inquired as they climbed into the car.

"Well... ," she said hastily, "I was... it was, I just..."

His laughter filled the car as they made their way to the plant nursery to purchase a tender morsel of a spider plant.

* * *

In his inner breast pocket was a new capsule case. He certainly hadn't asked for it, and when it had been offered to him he had tried to turn it down; it was worth at _least_ seven hundred zeni, and he did not have the funds to pay for it. Gifts, however, are difficult to turn down, especially from an insistent family like the Briefs.

It was called a Gardener's Case, including chemically enriched topsoil and fertilizer, a wheel barrel, pitchfork (with extra prongs in case it broke), two dandelion diggers, and a vast panorama of hearty flower seeds, as well as an insulated plastic tarp to keep plants protected over the winter (so deep into fall, it would be needed for the the new apple tree sapling and mulberry bushes he'd planted the previous spring -- the the subzero temperatures of the mountain winters killed many trees and plants each year.) The airtight confines of the capsules was said to keep the fertilizer and manure from rotting over the winter, so he would be able to peruse them come the next spring and summer.

It had, in all, been a good day. It would even have been a terrific day if he hadn't been reserving a part of his mind to worry about his mother and his grandfather and their immediate future and... Kami, forget it. Though Kaasan had left the Brief's early -- she had to put Goten down for a nap, and wasn't hungry for lunch, though he knew for a fact that it due to anxiety of her own -- he had been given permission to stay over for dinner. 

She likely simply wanted to be alone for a while. He understood without having to even look at her; it was not smell or sight or hearing her voice, but he just... knew... how she felt sometimes. He always had, since he was born, though over the years had come to realize it was not normal. Ah well, though. Many things about his family were not normal.

He'd stayed at the Brief's, helping the aging doctor and his volunteer workers feed the animals and clean up their messes (dinosaurs were especially difficult to house break.)

With the sun sinking low into the western mountains, his goosebumps stood up under a surprisingly frigid gust of wind. Winter would be coming early this year. He could smell it on the northern wind.

He picked up speed, soaring, arms spread at his sides, climbing altitude until the air finally began to get thin around him, and the clouds were far below him and if he looked up, he could almost see the stars through the blue-and-darkening sky. 

Looking back down, through the clouds, for miles and miles lay the secluded mountain chain his family called home. The steep, green rocky slopes glistened with frothy mountain streams (though from the distance a human would not have been able to make out such details). He saw the wildlife: the small birds flying much farther below him, the furry mammals of the brush, the aerial winged dinosaurs, pterodactyls and their smaller cousins nesting in the distant cliffs.

And there! :

Following the limestone gravel road, a sharp unnatural white stripe through the red, yellow, orange, green and gold autumn foliage, over a wood-and-rope bridge, was his home. From his height, it looked like nothing more than a tiny white marble set halfway into the ground, its exterior glinting orange in the setting sun's light and -

- there was a car in the driveway.

When he squinted, he still couldn't recognize it.

Very abruptly he canceled his chi and began dropping altitude, allowing himself to plummet headfirst four miles to the ground without using his power to hamper his descent before, just as he was about to splatter messily into the ground (if he were a human, anyway) he blossomed his chi for a split second, sending up tall plumes of dust, spun his legs over his head to land in a crouch. His chi was so low one could not detect it were they standing right next to him.

It was likely paranoia on his part, yes, but he didn't particularly like strangers knowing what sort of power and abnormal abilities he had. Even if most humans (_earthlings_, he reminded himself. Not all the sentient beings on the planet were human) didn't possess any acute chi sensing powers. The sentient animals-- of which were Oolong, Puar, Turtle, Karin-sama and, he suspected, many of the creatures that occupied the mountain, not to mention the domesticated city animals -- seemed to have a more instinctive understanding of chi, or perhaps it was more an instinctive understanding of _'Threat_', much like his sporadic and uncontrolled Saiya-jin instincts worked.

Though the humans of the planet didn't perceive much of _any_ instincts, they still subliminally recognized '_Threat_'. That was, of course, why the workers at Capsule Corporations were intimidated by Vegita-san before they even recognized him -- the Saiya-jin rarely concealed his chi, for about the same reason he, himself, kept his chi hidden: A notable chi on a planet of chi-sensitive people is an open challenge, and sure to draw conflict.

The gravel did not stir under his feet, allowing him to move completely without sound. He looked the strange car over first. It was a capsule car, he could tell by the fuselage. Jets and hideaway wings suggested flight capability, as well as welding around doubly thick glass that could possibly allow it to submerge and travel underwater. He couldn't recognize the make, which was peculiar as Bulma-san normally kept him up to date on the newest models, sometimes asking him to even proof the blue prints for mistakes before initiating production.

Likely, it was a custom job. Which meant this could quite possibly be the most expensive car he had ever laid eyes on. Over a million zeni, easy.

This was a _definite_ stranger, then. He knew many types of people, rich of heart or soul or power or support, but with an exception for Bulma, he didn't know anyone all that wealthy.

He brushed a string of awareness through the house, finding an indeed unfamiliar chi in the living room with Okaasan. When he quietly opened the door to the house, he could instantly scent a tenseness in the air. His mother was nervous... not quite afraid, and not angry, but definitely nervous.

His mother was rarely _ever_ nervous. Being a former Tenkaichi finalist, she rarely _needed_ to be.

He continued to move down the hall, body instinctively setting his weight down where the floor boards of the old house didn't creak (when a Saiya-jin wanted to move silent, even one with Saiya-jin sharp hearing would not be able to hear them.) Kami, if anyone dared to enter his house and threaten Kaasan, so help him, he would -

- Oh. Well, everything seemed all right enough. He had expected to find the room torn to pieces in a battle (his mother was fierce when she wanted to be), furniture knocked over, plants tipped and spilling their dirt onto the floor, mirrors and windows broken... 

The two of them, Kaasan and the stranger, were sitting comfortably in the living room. Him on the couch, her on the foot rest by the window. On the coffee table she had set out homemade mint cookies and hot green tea in her best china.

"...agreed to challenge, " Kaasan was saying, "And only... if you win... Gohan-chan. You're home."

"Yes," he said, managing to keep confusion from his expression, smiling convincingly, careful to politely _not_ stare at the visitor, "I'm sorry for taking so long. Bulma-san wanted to introduce me to some of her new employees." When he was certain she was meeting his gaze, he twitched his eyes at the stranger then raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Quite all right, dear... come in and have some tea and meet our visitor. This is... Prince Jondalar of the Blue Monarch Empire. Mister Jondalar, this is my oldest son, Son Gohan."

It was finally polite to look directly at the stranger, as the man stood up to greet him (though now that the introductions had been made, his hesitant curiosity had vanished, and though it couldn't be seen on the outside, his smile had grown fake as plastic.) 

The man was a good six feet tall, _About the same height as Otousan is_..._ was. Rr._

The man wasn't too threatening, despite being twice his own size, despite the short sword -- scimitar, he thought he recognized -- hung at his hip. The man's face was neither kind or unkind, cleanly shaven, more amused-looking and possibly a bit cocky. Sharp green eyes -- it took him a moment to realize he'd never really seen green human eyes before; Super Saiya-jin eyes were green but that really didn't count -- and a carefully combed crop of reddish-blonde hair. 

Kaasan didn't have to even mention this man was a prince. His clothes were intricate and impossibly expensive looking; his cologne exotic smelling (both of which, he could tell by scent, were made from animal products, which were illegal in most provinces since the 'animal population' had rebelled and staged marches through the capitals, waving signs and banners in their furry and scaled hands.) The man reeked of riches... though his expression wasn't quite as haughty as it could have been. It underlay with a certain amount of sincerity.

Or maybe it was just as Vegita often pointed out about him (during of of his many "I want to tell you all our flaws, if you try leaving you'll have to do it crawling away leaving a trail of blood behind you" rants) he _was_ perhaps too positive in his view of strangers. Too... 'soft' as the Saiya-jin would put it. When he was putting it nicely. 

When the man offered his hand, he shook it -- a western custom, this hand shaking -- before taking a step back and performing a traditional bow (which he always thought more sincere than a hand shake) and saying, "It's nice to meet you. I apologize if I've been rude, I wasn't expecting company."

When the man spoke, it was with a slight northern dialect, "Quite all right, young man." Only he pronounced more 'Qvite all right', "I'm afraid it was rude of me to arrive here without sending notice first." His v's were cut short and stiffened, making it 'to arrife here'. 

"I am sorry to hear about your father's death," the man went on, though the vague reference suggested he didn't know the details around which his father had died. That was a good thing. "He was an amazing fighter, yes? I saw him once... at the Tenkaichi Bodoukai. Though-," in a glance that no human would have caught, his eyes darted to look at Okaasan, "-I did not have the time to stay and watch his final impressive fight with the Demon King."

He hadn't stay to watch... it was not a good thought, but something told him the man had gone to the Tenkaichi to see his mother. And had likely departed once she had fought his father and they were declared husband and wife. 

Something near his eye twitched as he realized the man was making significant eyecontact with his mother. And she was blushing and... something else had occurred in her body that made his face flush. She likely caught from what he'd said the same thing he, himself did. And was flattered as well as... He took a deeper sniff of the air. She was attracted to him. Perhaps it was just physically -- it happened quite a bit, goodness knows Bulma-san was attracted physically to most handsome male employees that worked for her, and it was all entirely innocent.

It was innocent. It was. He could, after all, see how this man could be thought of as attractive, with his strikingly green eyes (almost the color of new spring grass) and long dark lashes, his honey colored hair. And his subtle flattery. His rich scent and his perfect, neat clothes. His wealth. Rare could one find a more decent man. And there was no reason his mother _shouldn't_ be attracted to him... She was... well, after with Tousan... gone...

She was single.

And since the death of Tousan, he knew for a fact that she had remained completely celibate. It would be a year next early summer.

He kept his face bland and polite as he turned to his mother, noticing a warning stiffness in his neck muscles, and his shoulders, too. "I'm sorry, but I have to excuse myself. I have homework to complete and need to get up early tomorrow to work in the garden... It will likely frost by next week and I have some seeds I need to get into the ground. I've already had dinner, anyway..."

"You're excused," Okaasan said, voice quite a bit flustered, blushing darker as she met his eye, also giving off waves of... guilt. It was likely because he looked so much like his father. Good. He felt petty and low, but he was glad he reminded her of Tousan. 

As he exited the room to make his silent way to his room, he heard Jondalar's voice behind him saying in a tone that would have been too low to hear were he a 'normal' person, "Garden?"

"He started it last fall," his mother said, also speaking in a low voice -- she never did understand how acute he and Tousan's hearing was, "It really was lovely, with so many different flowers..."

The man chuckled as the door to his own bedroom closed, "A boy who loves flowers, hm? How abnormal..."

He paced his room, to his desk, looked down at his papers. He hadn't meant to, but it turned out he was inadvertently lying about having homework. In his peculiar and confused emotional state, he had forgotten that he really _didn't_ have any homework. He had gotten it down early this morning, as a condition to be allowed to accompany Kaasan to the Capsule Corporations building.

He then paced to the bed. Stared at it. No, it was far too early to go to bed yet... Not while he could still hear the voices down the hall. His lips pushed together in frustration. He went to his well-stocked bookshelf and tried to find a book he might like to reread. As much as he loved reading, however, he had a bad taste in the back of his _mind_. 

He finally walked back to his desk to perhaps get started on _tomorrow's_ homework... As he sat down, however, he saw the corner of a rumpled piece of paper stuck under his Botany book. He stared at it for a moment, concentrating on it so hard for a moment the entire world hazed, sound stopped reaching his brain and he became disembodied from the world. He jumped when laughter from down the hall startled him back.

He pulled the paper out from under the book. It was taped together with scotch tape and very much a mess, even after being flattened under the book.

His eyelids lowered as he recognized it. Though he had likely read it at least four times a day since he'd retrieved it from the rubbish bin, and with the near-photographic memory his mother had raised him to have could have recited it word for word after reading it only _once_, he began rereading it yet again, after closely studying the stamped emblem of a blue butterfly in the topmost left corner of the paper (which he recognized after researching it on Bulma's computer as the Blue Monarch Empire's official seal.)

_To the esteemed Gyu-Mao, Ox-King of Fry Pan Mountain and Kingdom,_

_Your kingdom, with all it's wealth and years of prosperity, has let out a cry so loud it has reached my ears. Your people are unhappy; your power now seems to go unrespected, and surely soon your reign shall crumble leaving your subjects to a state of darkness and anarchy. _

_I have a proposition that could aid you._

_In any other case, this would be a declaration of war; my sources inform me you have an inadequate military, if you indeed have one at all. Were my troops to invade your land at this current time, I am willing to bet you and your limited royal guard would be slaughtered like fat young calves-_

He skipped the next few paragraphs, as they were nothing more than an in-depth explanation of just how easy it would be to overtake and decimate Fry Pan and any forces that stood between them and their goal. It sounded too familiar to him. The arrogance. The assurance that victory was imminent. Just once it would be nice to have a _humble_ force to reckon with. Still, he recognized that it was a type of technique to insure victory.

He was not merely using a less-than-subtle means to proclaim victory in advance, it was also more likely to lower the moral of he that received the letter. It did not raise his opinion of the letter's writer knowing that the letter had been written to his grandfather.

_-however it has come to my knowledge that your only heir and daughter has been recently widowed. In the wake of my condolences for the loss of your son-in-law (who, from what I've heard, was a mighty warrior in his own right) I would like to bring to your notice that my only son, Prince Jondalar, is not only also without a marriage mate, but has been interested in your own daughter for quite a few years now. You would recall some fourteen years ago he even went so far as to ask for your daughter's hand, though at the time she was already taken. Besides that, they were still too young, him being only fifteen, and her a mere thirteen._

_But the signs cannot be ignored, now! For at this very time that I find your kingdom at the fringes of my own empire, and find that I want it, fate has parted our disagreements and shown us a peaceful solution! _

_Would it not be a glorious union if our children were wed? The union of our two kingdoms between our two heirs could merge our dual power into what would be one of the largest kingdoms on the planet. Perhaps, if we were to expand even further, we could declare ourselves a country of our own. Through such an arrangement you would be allowed to rule your kingdom for as long as you desire, to the end of your natural days if you so wish it. (It wouldn't, after all, be polite to kill my daughter-in-law's father or steal his land.)_

_And after we relinquish our thrones to our wed prince and princess, it could be a single kingdom, run by a mighty dual power-_

He flipped through the next two and a half pages, unwilling to read a second time the careful and nauseous depiction of a perfect, powerful and (at least it seemed) brutally aggressive kingdom. Didn't want to know how efficient it could be, or how peaceful, or what sort of glory it could gain. 

He did not like it.

_-realize that your family's code on marriage stems from a tradition set by your own wife (may she rest in peace; I had met her but twice before her final departure from this world.) Unless I am mistaken, according to the rules of Fry Pan, my son must first defeat your daughter in combat. Consider it done._

_Then let this letter, rather than a declaration of war, be a challenge from my family to yours._

_Next spring, in a place of you and your daughter's choosing, under witness of your eyes, my own, and a yet unselected number of other witnesses, my son shall battle your daughter with his chosen weapon: the scimitar, as he is an accomplished and yet undefeated swordsman. Your daughter may choose any single, non-projectile weapon for herself._

_My son shall seek audience with your daughter some time soon to see whether she understands and accepts our challenge. And then they shall be wed._

_May the resulting union bring peace to both our kingdoms for generations to come._

_Emperor Dunadar of the Blue Monarch Empire._

A few weeks back, his mother had torn this letter into a multitude of pieces, crumpled it up and thrown it away. It had taken quite a few hours to piece it back together with scotch tape, and press it flat under a heavy book.

Nothing, however, could have repaired it were he to suddenly incinerate it to powdery ash in his fingers...

He was quite aware of that face as, in the living room, he could still hear the voices of his mother and the visitor, the hairs on the back of his neck and along his scalp prickling on edge at the unfamiliar sound of the visitor's voice. Strangers had been in the house before, both male and female. But never before had the sound of a man's voice that wasn't his father's upset him so.

He sat back down at his desk, smoothing the hairs of his arms and neck down with his palms, and returned to his homework.

* * *

** Prologue Index Next Part**

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	3. VE: 2 As Under Provocation

**The Variation Elements**

**1.2 As Under Provocation**

**meek** (mêk) adj. 1. humbly patient or submissive, as under  
provocation from others. 2. Unduly patient or submissive; tame.  
3. _Obs_. gentle; kind; yielding; docile; forbearing; humble  
_-American College Dictionary   
Copyright© , 1947_

* * *

_Diesen ist meine neues Gehimnis Tagebuch_. 

_This is my second attempt to keep a secret journal, which Mutter does not know about. Perhaps it is a bad idea, after what happened last time. About that, however, I do not want to speak oder write about. My arm healed just fine, anyway._

_I am writing auf Deutch, in German, because I know Mutter does not know this language. (You see? I am being more careful; my last attempt was auf English, which, as I have learned from last time, she happens to know quite well.) Entschuldigung, I'm not sure if I spelled all of that correctly. I am writing in Romanji, and have realized I have a bad habit of sounding words out using English pronunciations._

_There is a man in the house, who it seems Mutter must marry or else Opa shall lose his kingdom and possibly his life. I don't think I should use proper names, in case Mutter does happen to find this Tagebuch, so that she won't at least know who I'm writing about. I think I will call the man Der Prinz._

_I am not entirely sure why I've started geheimnis schribern again, and I feel both guilty and foolish about it. I should not have to keep secrets, and if I really wanted to talk about something I should go and find __Picco__ Meinem Lehrer für sprechen. Es ist alles verrückt._

_Perhaps I merely do not want to bother anyone without due cause. Or perhaps I am a coward and am thereby _**_unable _**_comfortably talk about it. I prefer the former possibility._

_I can too-easily hear Mutter und Der Prinz conversing in the living room; I do not think they will be going to bed anytime soon. I just heard Mutter invite him to stay the night, thankfully outside in a capsule house of his choosing. I hope he doesn't open a capsule mansion and crush all the plants..._

_Mutter is laughing. I haven't heard her laugh so openly in a long time. Something is seriously wrong with me, and I feel horrible for it, but knowing that she is laughing with Der Prinz does not make me happy. It is selfish and unthoughtful. I shall have to watch that in the future._

_If you'll excuse me, then, I would be going to bed now, so guten Nacht._

_--Deinen Shreiber_

* * *

Asleep, his dreams were ever devoted to his love. To Genevah. To Genevah's long legs. To Genavah's soft hair. To Genevah's incredibly dark, deep eyes... as dark as human eyes could naturally be; so dark they looked like black... 

Like Chi-Chi's fathomless eyes...

He turned over in his sleep before falling deeper and farther beyond consciousness.

His first crush, to be true, was the enchanting (and disturbingly aggressive) daughter of the cannibal monster Gyu-Mao. 

It had never been love. He was young, but he was never so foolish in such things; neither, though, was it entirely lust, for he was too young again to feel intense physical urges for her. And by the time he had learned the entertainment of touching himself, he failed to fantasize about her, as she had been forgotten. Forgotten under the love of Genevah...

Though he had been a stately two years older than Princess Chi-Chi, with his already gloriously broadening shoulders and a good complexion, she had intimidated him beyond belief; by the time it came down to it, he had spoken to her approximately zero times when he asked her father if she was available for marriage. Which she wasn't. He had been a year too late.

She married another. An untraditional savage of a man, with no honest royalty in his veins... who she loved enough to pursue him to that tournament, to train enough to ensure she would reach the finals. To reach him. She went after _him. _She challenged him. Made her marriage intentions known. And after a heated battle, had lost honestly to him, while in the same breath had won a husband.

And he had stood in the crowd and watched. Why had he followed her all the way to that tournament? Why had he felt impulses to watch as the only woman he was infatuated with was lost to him forever? He was almost compelled to enter the ring and challenge her himself! Would have done anything at that moment to win her! To have her as wife, to be allowed to talk to her and kiss her and be able to touch her body...

But he had no talent in hand to hand combat, and the tournament had a strict policy against weapons; he would not have been able to use his scimitar. And... and even if he _had_ been allowed to use his sword, and had been able to defeat her and take her by force, she would not have been his wife. 

For there was no way in existence he would ever have been able to defeat Son Goku. Even all these years later, with over a decade more training in fencing and physical and mental endurance, he couldn't begin to fathom how that boy had done even _half_ of the things he did.

He had speed. Power. Force. Brutality. The backing of nearly the entire body of finalist fighters. Son Goku was the essence of toughness. He had been overwhelmed. By a boy younger than himself. Smaller, too. He hung his head in shame that day.

And then he met Genevah. And fell in love. Such beauty the world could hardly contain, standing there in that awesome dress, amid all those people that didn't matter, at that dull banquet his father had held. Beneath that royal blue dress was a body not at all well endowed: flat-chested, too slim of the hips. It didn't matter. It was the _eyes_ that held him, those incredibly dark, deep eyes and those perfect, cupid lips that created an enticing smile.

So he initiated conversation. With the first he had ever been attracted to.

The angel's voice was a rich falsetto, with a northern accent even stronger than his own; thick and deep until it seemed to fill that entire glorious mouth. That mouth that pronounced his name as it was meant to be -- "Yon-da-lah" -- without ever needing to be told. 

The only other person living that pronounced his name like that was his father. In private. It was their personal code of secrecy.

The banquet ended.

The people went home. He caught Genevah's arm, and they wound up talking all night...

Talking all night in her, Chi-Chi's, living room, sipping tea and...

...

and he then thought to himself 'Oh, I seem to be waking up' just as his eyes opened.

It was early morning. Even under his turkey feather-stuffed quilt and flannel sheets it was much colder than down in the flatlands he normally called home. If it was this cold in a mountainous _autumn_, he was loath to think of what it must feel like in a mountain _winter_. Though yesterday, he had been much too intoxicated by the utter femininity of Chi-Chi to notice, the altitude was giving him a migraine...

He rolled over under his feather decker and tried to fall back asleep, but his feet were too cold. His own damn fault, sleeping naked, but it wasn't like he knew...

He stumbled through the confines of his capsule house, looking out each window at the mist-shrouded mountains; the sun had just penetrated the fog to show imposing and dark shadows of great monoliths of stone. Beautiful if not mildly intimidating. Through the obstructing fog and mountains, he would be unable to watch the sunrise.

He dressed in his warmest clothes -- traditional brown leather, with fur-fringed sleeves -- and pulled on his lace up boots before venturing outside. He recapsulated his house (he'd promised he would, to avoid killing the already yellowed grass.) 

It was probably too early to knock on the Son's door (it was damaging to his pride to see that name, Son, emblazoned in red above their front door; it was a reminder of the first rival who he'd lost to.) So he wandered the premises, circling the modest dwelling -- to think it housed a _princess_!! -- until he was startled to find he was not the only early riser this morning.

Chi-Chi's son... (Gohan was his name?) was already hard at work, on his knees in the dirt. He wasn't dressed nearly as nice as he'd been yesterday; it was a prudent move, considering he was doing gardening work. A long sleeved flannel, cheap brown boots and faded jeans -- from behind, he saw they had an embarrassing red patch sewn over a hole in the bottom.

"Good morning, Prince Jondalar." The boy said without turning his head, admittedly startling him, as he didn't think he had made a single sound in his morning walk around the house, "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you," the man answered through his surprise, more aware of his dialect when compared to the boy's precise pronunciations, it was more '_fer_y vell, dank you' , "Though it is colder up here; I hadn't been anticipating it... the leaves of the trees of my home have just now begun turning gold."

"Snow will be falling pretty soon... and when it snows, it blizzards for days at a time." He looked over his shoulder a moment, then back down to his work again, "You should get out of the mountains before it happens or you could be snowbound for a few weeks." The boy stood up and, seeming oblivious of the cold, (he wasn't even wearing gloves while digging in the half-frozen ground) he drove a pitchfork into the soil to till it, rotating and loosening the brown clumps to a more pliable texture.

Canting his head, the man wondered if the boy wasn't trying to hint that maybe it was time for him to go away. Not finding it appropriate to mention that the idea of being snow bound in the same small house as Chi-Chi was a dream come true by his standards, he evaded the entire conversation, "Would you like some help?"

The boy knelt back down, dragging a bag of manure fertilizer closer to himself, steaming slightly from internal heat, "No, thank you very much." He looked up from his work finally and smiled very kindly -- an exact duplicate of the smile he'd shown the night before, "I like working in the garden." He picked out a few remaining weeds in the dirt, then massaged in a handful of the bag's contents.

When the youth began poking holes in the ground and inserting seeds, the man kneeled down beside him to watch. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen someone actually gardening before in my entire life."

"I'm sure you were busy."

"Not really."

"Oh."

The boy covered over the seeds, neatly bedded in their holes, and stood up, brushing his hands off on his pant legs. Still kneeling, the man questioned, "Aren't your hands a little cold?"

"Hn? Well, no..." He backed away to survey his work.

Growing uncomfortable with the silence and the increasing air of his inability to hold a conversation with the son of his future wife, the man looked across the field, "What kind of plants are those over there? You seem to have a lot of them, though they're all brown from the cold."

Something on the boy's face both warmed and saddened, "Lilies-of-the-valley. I got more than I planted... I didn't know that they spread by root as well as seed."

"Don't weeds do that? Choking other plants with their roots?"

The boy gathered up his bag of manure and the pitchfork, placing them in a large basin with the Capsule Corporations logo on it, beneath the emblazoned red number '15'. Closing the lid and striking the button on the side of it, the thing recapsulated. "They're not weeds... though they're not a very popular type of flower. I was studying botany a few years ago...," came the answer, "And came across a legend about the _Convallaria magalis_, Lilies-of-the-valley... I really liked it." He cleared his throat and quickly returned the capsule to a green case with a flower on it. 

Curious, the man raised his eyebrows in a 'and?' way, spreading his palms as though asking for more.

"It was a very old Sussex legend about a man called St. Leonard, who went deep into the woods outside of Horsham to slay a great dragon... they fought endlessly, with everything they had. It must have been a... colossal... battle." Something in his eyes became sharp as he spoke, as though in thinking of such a great battle he was both excited and terrified, experiencing it personally, every adrenaline pumping moment, 

"St. Leonard finally won and slew the dragon, but was heavily wounded in the process; some versions of the legend even say that he died while killing the dragon... fighting until the last breath. Can you imagine it? The forest must have been ablaze around them, neither caring if they were burning because they were too busy just... fighting." He shivered slightly, though likely not in response to the cold, "It's said that everywhere the saint's blood fell, Lilies-of-the-valley sprang up to commemorate the battle. Those woods are still thickly carpeted with them, now... Just a long stretch of little white flowers."

"It is a gory tale... why would you like such a legend?" The man asked after a moment of consideration, unable to keep himself from mentally experiencing it for a few agonizing seconds, considering how intensely the boy himself had narrated it...

The boy's face changed back to vague and gentle, losing the sharpness and what could possibly have been the true emotion and passion vanished back into an open but somehow unbelievable smile, as though it were practiced to perfection before a mirror but lacking what made a smile really a smile. The man wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't seen how the youth could really look.

"The story has sentimental value to me."

The man went out on a limb, "Does the warrior, St. Leonard, remind you of your father, then? Would you dedicate your garden to him?"

The sharpness and almost-weary look returned for half a moment, "Yes." The youth seemed to be talking more to himself, looking out at the expanse of dead lilies, which could very well have been pig weed or cat nip or blossomless dandelions for what they looked like at the moment. The man couldn't be sure, but the boy could possibly have whispered, "Tousan..."

"You, ah... know why I'm here, don't you?" The man finally asked.

The boy looked at him closed for a moment, studying his face, open but hesitant which told the man that likely the youth generally liked most people, and was fighting his own little dragon on whether he should like the man or not. "I do."

"Then just... bear with me, okay? I'm not as great a warrior as Son Goku, and I can't hope to beat anyone at the Tenkaichi, but I'm sure that when I'm your stepfather everything will-"

The boy abruptly turned his head and said quickly, "Do you hear that? A car is coming; we're going to have company soon. It's Yam-... I think, ah, Yamcha-san was going to come visit us. That must be him. I have to go inside and get dressed, these clothes are all dirty. I probably have time to take a shower if I hurry. Ah, I'll be... please excuse me." He half tripped over a five-gallon bucket full of weeds, their roots sticking up heavenward as though grasping for hope after death.

The man stood up too, quickly brushing the dirt of his expensive pants. He followed the youth to the front door of the house, and took the bold initiative to also follow him into the house. The heat inside was enticing compared to the chilly air without.

He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder, holding as still as possible, listening. He heard no car.

Fifteen minutes later, however, he did, when it pulled up the gravel drive and stopped in front of the house.

**(Reference: ****B****otanical.com****)**

* * *

He didn't know what to expect when he pulled his car up to the Son residence; it was still rather early in the morning, so it was possible that the wife and son of his deceased friend were still asleep. He'd stayed the night here enough times, however, to know that at least Gohan would likely be awake by this time (he took after his father in that way -- which must have meant it was a Saiya-jin trait... -- the two of them could easily get through their day on four or five hours of sleep; to bed late at night and be up at the crack of dawn without a sign of fatigue.) 

The only times the boy ever slept in late was the rare occasions he visited Piccolo and got roped into a spar; sleeping helped to increase his healing speed (another Goku-Saiya-jin thing, likely...)

He was surprised to find such an expensive car already taking up space in the driveway. It was with a former-thief's appraise that he figured the thing could get well over a million easy if sold. But of course, he had to remind himself, he wasn't going to steal it and sell it. Because it was silly. He already had a net worth of a couple million... or would if he pooled it all together.

"Puar." He said. She had been sleeping on his lap, purring off an on throughout the trip, her tiny paws kneading his thigh, claws snagging his pant leg. She looked sleepily up at him, and grinned her strange, sly cat-grin. He didn't have to say anything else as she automatically scaled his long-sleeved shirt (he'd dressed up, not wanting Chi-Chi to call him a slob again) and curled around his neck like a stoal.

"It's a lot colder up here," she commented in his ear as they got out of the car, tightening her tiny body closer to his to keep them both warm on the way to the door.

After knocking just once they were surprised when the door was answered by a strange man, and for a moment he thought he'd somehow come to the wrong house, "Yes?" The man asked, looking startled.

"Hi. Um, we're here to see Gohan and Chi-Chi, are they in? We were hoping to see their new baby."

"We? ... Oh, I didn't notice your pet up there. He's so tiny." The man said, pushing his lips together, "We don't have many animals where I come from."

He felt his furry accomplice dig her talons into his shoulder a little; he stroked her side gently. It was not the first time someone had been unintelligent enough to mistake her gender, and they could forgive him that. But it was irritating to come across the type of people that automatically assume if a creature doesn't look like a human, it must be a pet, a wild animal, a monster, or an alien. This would not be first person to make such an assumption, either, though it was the first person that he hadn't struck for their stupidity in response.

"Good morning, Yamcha! Puar!" Gohan interrupted a possibly bloody scenario as he came out of the kitchen, dressed in his usual, decent house clothes, smiling welcomingly. "It's not everyday we see you two way out here."

"We were heading for the desert and decided we could stop by." Yamcha explained, grinning, "It's been a while, hasn't it? You're hairs gotten shaggier."

"Yeah, I haven't had it cut since..." He paused, glanced at the stranger for a quick second, then said quickly, "For quite a while, I think. I'm considering growing it out again. You're changed yours as well?"

"I'm a man who's never satisfied with his looks; besides, Puar seems to think it helps detract from the scars. Who's your friend here?" He jerked his thumb at the stranger.

A good warrior (and indeed, he was a very good warrior) can read a person's reactibility, emotions, intentions, tension factor, and damn near soul through a their stance and chi. Though nothing specific changed on the normally upbeat, quiet, warm son of his old friend, he quite suddenly stopped looking so... welcoming. He went on smiling anyway, "Yamcha-san this... is Prince Jondalar of the Blue Monarch Empire." His tone became even more inhospitable, "Prince Jondalar, this is Yamcha: a very good friend of the family."

The two men shook hands, but Yamcha was suddenly getting the feeling he should not like this man. When the prince said, "It's a pleasure," he responded with, "Yeah. Is that your million-dollar car outside? You seem to have forgotten to recapsulate it; you may be in the boonies, but there are still crooks out here, and if they don't get getcha, the cold sure isn't healthy for a nice car either."

The man blinked in genuine surprise, "Oh, thank you for telling me! I'm afraid I don't go many places without a driver..." He quickly slipped outside to rectify.

In his immediate absence: "What's he doing here?"

"Come talk to me in my room, please," the boy said, and headed down the hall, not even waiting for his royal guest to return.

He followed without a glance back. He couldn't be sure if it was his own mind or Puar whispering in his ear, but the words, "Easy Mark" rattled within his skull. He should have stolen the car. He could easily have capsulated it and stuck it in one of the many secret compartments of his own personally modified car... Somehow the thought of fleecing a bonified prince had a very large appeal, even for a man who had given such habits up years ago.

* * *

"This is _crap_." The crumpled and taped up sheet of paper was thumped pointedly by the back of a hand to signify what, precisely, was being referred to. 

"It is." Said with resignation.

"What are you going to do?" Half-hysterical with passion at the injustice.

"There is nothing I can do." Resignation continued.

The building of disbelief, "You're going to sit back and do _nothing_?!"

Razor-sharp little teeth pressed together. "You make it sound like I don't _want_ to do anything."

"Then _act_. You don't have to be meek and quiet _all_ the time."

Mounting frustration integrated with tight restraint, "What would _you_ suggest?"

"He's issued a challenge? So give him a challenge. And even if she has no choice, even if she wins, then at least she can have the dignity of making _him_ a loser, even if he does get his way."

Leaned closer, suppressed feral tendencies making eyes gleam at the prospect of some form of conflict or victory, "What do you have in mind?"

"Make her stronger. Make her better than him. I think I'm going to hang around for a while, if it's okay with the two of you... I can help you. I know how to use a sword better than any other warrior you _know_."

"...A-alright. Yes. Maybe you have something..."

* * *

When he felt tension in her voice as she spoke on the phone, it almost always insinuated a situation he would soon be told about whether he wanted to hear it or not. Bearing such in mind, he didn't bother to exit the breakfast table and resume where he'd left off the day before in the gravity chamber, instead stumbling through the newspaper's headlines, trying to piece together information through the few words and letters he knew of the Earthling written language. 

"I despise politics," she informed him once she hung the receiver back on its cradle.

"Nn." He replied, though even he couldn't deny possible curiosity. Most affairs of this tiny world were beneath his notice, but if any events were to impose on _her_, they were then an issue of his utmost attention. Until they were obliterated.

"That was Chi-Chi on the phone; do you know what kind of hell she's going through at the moment?" It was likely a rhetorical question, but she paused as though waiting for an answer.

He didn't bother mentioning his feelings for Kakarotto's mate: the woman who he blamed for wearing away at Gohan's blades, ruining any chance for him to be a true, independent warrior. It didn't matter, after all, that he was almost infinitely powerful and extremely well trained. His heart simply was not in it, because that stupid woman and her misguided ideals she inflicted on him whenever she had the chance would not allow him to embrace his Saiya-jin nature. She wanted him meek and obedient. And he was. Dammit, if he wasn't. And it seemed no one else but he had noticed that underlying current of oppressed instinct that ripped through the boy's chi and skewed projection of mentality which his own Saiya-jin nature gave him privy to.

She had methodically mixed him up so badly he was nearly incapable of taking care of himself, being so wrapped up in emotional conflict, only fighting back when something or one besides himself was threatened. Any good warrior would know that it was impossible to tend to other things if the self was not first tended to. Even the common _Earthling_ knew such things.

It was another tender issue with him, as he was certain if Kakarotto were still about it would have a profoundly positive impact on the boy's mental health. After all, being Saiya-jin (mixed up and confusing as he was) he also had the sensitive mental insight that appeared latent in the human mind. (The Namek he had never been sure about, though it was more than possible that he, too, possessed auxiliary insight outside of the common man.) 

"She's being pushed into marrying another man! Can you imagine the gall of whoever would be sick enough to force a widow into matrimony without giving her even a year to mourn her first husband!"

"A year." He said, half to himself, to confirm the length of time since Kakarotto's death.

She scowled at him, "Oh, don't correct me so much. Maybe it's been a little longer. I don't know, okay? Right now I'm just trying to say that something's rotten in Denmark, or rather Paouzu, and Chi-Chi and Gohan seem to be in for even _more_ rough times. I guess Yamcha's over there with them, and seems to intend to stay for a while... That poor girl. And poor Gohan, too. Stepfather's are so hard to adjust to, even for _normal_ children."

"Why." There was no question. He had a large difficulty with raising the last syllable when making inquiries.

"What?" She, however, seemed to _only_ know how to have her voice raised, making quite a few statements she made sound like questions, even if she didn't intend it.

Were he speaking to anyone else, he would have beaten them bloody for using such a tone with him. For her, however, he clarified, "Why should she comply. Has she no status as mate to what was once the strongest man on Earth? Or even if that means nothing, Gohan is ever at her beck and call. Why not simply sic her slave-son on-"

"Don't you know how to solve _any_ conflict without using force? Of _course_ she wouldn't use her own son to hide behind; she would be asking him to stand up to an entire _army_. The Blue Monarch Empire is huge, and if they don't get what they want through marriage, they'll just end up taking it by force."

"An army of weak _humans_. Gohan could eliminate them all in less than five seconds." 

"Can you see him _ever_ doing that? Honestly. Think about it."

"I said _could_. I know full well the boy's inadequacies in carrying out his duties." He felt more stubborn than usual, as though it were an argument that, if won, would then transform Kakarotto's son into a normal Saiya-jin brat instead of the mixed up mess he was, which would then give him hope that a Saiya-jin crossed with a human was capable of perfectly integrating its dual natures. He wanted verification that his own son would not be riddled with inner conflict between Saiya-jin aggression and pathetic human defense, which, no matter which side made a decision, seemed to give him a feeling of defeat through the side that lost.

"I can't talk to you." She said finally, theatrically throwing up her hands to show she no longer wanted to touch on the issue, "It's no wonder your an alien; you're so far out in left field you can't possibly be _from_ this planet."

He assumed this was her way of calling him either different, or insane. He couldn't quite tell. He realized she had left, though he wasn't entirely sure how long she had been gone. Or how long he had been sitting at the table contemplating the Son's situation since. Damn the need to keep track of time. Time! The bane of all mortals...

"Papa?"

"Your mother isn't here," he said to the small toddler who had entered the room, chewing on the end of Night-Night, his disgusting purple blanket that he refused to go anywhere without.

"'Kay," the small creature said, crossing the room and sitting down on the floor next to the man's chair leg.

"Ksh," he snarled at it. He had never heard his voice recorded before, so really didn't know what he sounded like, but he was aware that such particular sounds were created with some different part of the vocals, the gravely area in his throat that Bulma had informed him humans simply did not have, where growls and -- in the intimate and safe encirclement of his mate's bed... her soft arms -- purrs would come from.

He rose from his seat and stepped over the creature to get past it and exit the room; he had no idea what to do around it. She had told him to set a good example, and he _did_ feel his own warped paternal instincts for that which was his son, but for all his power and knowledge acquired in his school of hard knocks, he had no idea how to begin behaving around it.

"Ksh," the toddler mimicked perfectly -- it must have inherited that peculiar second set of vocals... -- before quickly getting up as well, swinging Night-Night over his shoulder, and following.

It followed him through the kitchen, down the hall, and to the bedroom where his clothes had been all ready picked out. When he pulled on the loose sleeveless shirt -- he had finally relinquished wearing his armor -- the creature climbed up onto the bed to watch. When it seemed to feel the attention it was receiving inadequate, it bared it's teeth pointedly at him and hissed, "Ksh!"

"What do you _want_?" He asked of it as he pulled on his pants.

"Ksh!" It went on again, seeming to find the mouth-sound interesting, before viciously chewing on Night-Night again. Saiya-jin children grew very slowly; his teeth were still growing out a bit, and likely his gums itched something terrible. That, at least, was a good thing about the Night-Night: Before getting it, the creature chewed on any object it gained hold of.

"Go find your mother," He said to it, but didn't try to leave this time. It had happened before: This was a game now. The creature would follow him wherever he went until it grew tired on its own.

Two small hands clutched his shirt front, and scaled him like a squirrel scaling a tree, up over his shoulder to hang upside-down on his back. Despite his many attempts to deny it, he couldn't help but be amused and slightly proud at times like these. No worthless _human_ toddler, after all, would be able to perform such a strenuous feat. Saiya-jin power triumphs yet again.

So why couldn't Gohan be so well-adapted to his hybrid state as the creature Trunks? He may not have been born into the knowledge that he was not entirely human, but for all the events he had lived through, he should have been able to grasp himself in entirety by _now_... How could anyone with even a drop of Saiya-jin blood in their veins be unassertive? Sure, it would be strange for the oldest of the hybrid brats to suddenly change into a ferocious little creature (indeed, his behavior while fighting Cell had been severely unnerving, and the world felt for a while as though Gohan had died along with Trunks and Kakarotto) but despite, he couldn't help but feel something wasn't quite right about that kid.

With his heir-creature dangling from his shoulders and neck like a pro-gymnast, he made his way to the gravity room on the uppermost tenth floor, with all its privacy.

Well, he had to remind himself, perhaps even though Gohan _did_ surrender too easily in the smaller things, when it came to honest principles (especially those upheld by his backwards sire) he did have a relatively good grasp of perseverance.

He had seem examples before, such as a specific moment that came to mind, not without an element of guilt:

It had been a very long time ago (who knew how many years, but it was before Cell... yes, likely even before Kakarotto returned from Namek) during what Gohan often referred to as a "disagreement" between the two of them, whenever a mere argument came down to violence, which was almost always the outcome. He did not recall what the "disagreement" had been about, or how it had started. 

He only remembered that it had ended with him breaking the boy's arm. 

The boy was so much smaller back then, and so much weaker, on his knees, arm twisted behind his back. He could look down and still recall holding one of his little hands, twisting it at the wrist to keep him from struggling, while his other hand was pressed into the back of that little elbow. 

Hm. He was rarely one to feel regret, but recalling the memory left a vaguely unpleasant taste in his mouth. Even back then he honestly didn't have the initial_ drive_ to hurt the kid, it was just that the moment was so tense and exciting, and his instincts were rampant and his foe was subdued and the predatory part of him, (which might have felt the urge to _eat_ the child were he not already well-fed) was feeling quite inclined to rip and render and bite and claw and tear and kill, not caring specifically what.

"_Say it_." He could recall speaking through that second set of vocals, which just happened when he was angry. Hn... perhaps it was no real surprise Gohan was usually so on edge around him. He could feel his regret all he wanted, but it hadn't been _him_ face down in the grass that day. "_Vegita-sama. No Ouji. Prince. You pretend to be so subservient, now do it, say it, bow down and apologize, and maybe I'll let go._"

"I can't." Was all the kid said in response. Well, not said so much as whispered; trying not to scream. Even then, as he remembered his hand put more pressure to the back of the kid's elbow, bending it so far the wrong way his acute ears could actually hear tendon beginning to tear, he began to realize they were at a stalemate; he couldn't show his own weakness by releasing without getting what he wanted, and the then-brat couldn't _give_ him what he wanted.

"_I mean it_," he had said. He had said, as he wished he were anywhere else but there. He had broken and killed so many creatures it wouldn't have meant much if he tore the boy's whole arm _off_, but he was realizing it would be counter productive. He would be punishing the kid for remaining firm in a resolve, which he rarely did even back then (which had even _concerned_ him back then, though at a much less tangible level.) What else could he do? He had known perfectly well he was going too far. But had also gone too far to go back.

The then-brat made a small throat sound, "nnN_N_!" and quite suddenly the elbow he was applying pressure to gave a wet pop and then offered no more resistance. Well, then the boy _did_ scream, loud and grating to the ears; a Saiya-jin scream, from that second set of vocals, like an animal.

What could he do? He'd never had to actually deal with repercussions such as guilt after inflicting damage on another creature -- sure, maybe a sound beating from a superior for disturbing the peace but that wasn't much of anything. He took a step or two back from the pained and screaming child, looking left and right for someone to blame for this -- the Earthlings were supposed to _keep_ this sort of thing from _happening_. Didn't they know their little brat-friend was in trouble? Had he no keeper? He surely wasn't old enough to be left completely on his own, yet, no matter how strong he was.

Finally, he came to the realization that no one else would be coming to rescue the brat from him and tell him he had better leave and take the problem out of his hands so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. 

So, confused but resolute, he made his way to that peculiar island where he could feel the bald human, Kuririn's, chi. Though there were other warriors on the ridiculous isle, only the short hairless human had the balls to come out and meet him, mildly nervous but more curious than so. He had already begun losing their fear with friendliness. Despite what his mate would say, it was indeed a bad thing.

With some bartering and a beautifully constructed, of-the-moment string of lies, he acquired a senzu. A single senzu. Apparently, they didn't trust him with any more than that. Good.

He returned at a regular flying pace; it wasn't like then-brat was going to die or anything. When he reached him, the kid still hadn't been within much of a rational level, so he had to grab a handful of his hair to make his head hold still, pry those clenched teeth apart -- Saiya-jin-sharp little needle-teeth, tore holes in his gloves, the fucker -- and managed to stuff the senzu not only into his mouth but halfway down his throat in one quick jab. Maybe he stuffed it further than necessary in his irritation, but he wasn't about to hear any complaints.

The kid, who of course didn't grasp all that was happening at the time, gagged, coughed, then reflexively swallowed. Then lay there panting from all the screaming. And there was that. He had turned and left the area feeling verified that he could take care of any situation that came up and didn't think any more on it for quite a while (at least not for too long in each burst of memory). ... No harm done, yes? He fixed the problem on his own. Good as new. He took care of it. 

...

Of course that had not been the first time something like that had happened.

... Nor the last.

Looking across the empty expanse of his training room, trying to ignore the brat-child tugging at his arm, he wondered if maybe he wasn't slightly at fault for Gohan's level of complacency.

Maybe he just wasn't supposed to be allowed around children.

He pried the toddler-creature off his neck and set it down outside the door, distracting its attention by showing it a line of three or four ants that had somehow made it this deep into the mansion. And with its full attention directed to smashing each insect with its tiny fingers, the man slipped into the gravity room and locked the door behind him to insure no one followed.

* * *

A warm orange glow, creeping in through the western window, altered the coloration of the room. It helped warm her, soul and body. The bedroom was not as warm as the living room or kitchen, where the stove and fire place were located, though the vents had been opened to feed the heat sparingly through the rest of the house. Her fingers felt like ice, and hurt dully; she suspected that perhaps all the nimble sewing and vegetable cutting and the years of repairing the house's leaking shingles and windows bare handed had taken a toll. 

When she got older, she would likely get arthritis. _If_ she got older, that was; life had proven that death was unpredictable and waited for no man, or woman (or even child), no matter how strong they were. After all, she never thought she would see the day she outlived her husband, who had proven himself strongest man on the planet and, later, strongest man in the known universe. And yet she had survived him not once, but twice.

She curled her cold hands into tight balls and put them under her legs to warm them. She could have gone into the living room; Gohan had been keeping up a fire in the woodstove since before she had even woken up this morning, but she honestly didn't feel like seeing anyone at the moment. She had only ventured out twice: Once to investigate all the voices from the living room, and once to get a breakfast and make a few phone calls. 

But then she retreated back to her room. She couldn't look Gohan in the eye at the moment; she hadn't told him a thing about the prince, yet he seemed to know the purpose of his presence already. Yamcha and Puar were visiting as well, and though normally she loved company, she wasn't feeling up to being a host.

She especially was not feeling up to being a host to the Prince Jondalar. It was like keeping a delicious cake she had snitched into out in plain view: The temptation still remained to devour the rest, but there was also the forever present sense of guilt that she had snitched into it in the first place. He was so polite and kind, with all his subtle compliments; when she met his eyes she felt as though she were melting in the tenderness he regarded her with. He was so different from her former husband.

Goku, rest his infallible soul, had been as gentle and kind as he was capable of; he never complained, was always exciting and eager to please her but... Well, every wife had her complaints, but he had never been able to contain the wild element within him. It hadn't been possible, after all; he was born feral at heart, like a burning candle that would shine bright and scalding hot until it finally burnt out. And then, of course, he had died. 

She stood up from her bed and paced the room to avoid crying. She didn't have time to cry, and besides that Gohan always seemed to know when she did, whether it was his impeccable hearing, or sense of smell, or some other alien talent he had failed to tell her about. She finally went to the quilt-drapped basin that sat opposite the room of the cold, drafty window, just beneath the vent that pumped in the warm air from the living room. 

Within the basin lay the sleeping Goten, contentedly sucking on the corner of his pillow as he likely dreamt of feeding. His tiny face was such a reminder of her late husband, chubbier and less tanned, lacking the faint frown between his eye brows from years of perfecting a look that could stare down any opponent. He was always so sweet and kind and without a grain of threat, no matter what she did or said in her fits of temper.

She deeply missed Goku; missed him so much that her heart ached and her soul yearned for him and her mind refused to entirely comprehend that he was gone. Going to bed at night she would still half-dream that he would be returning within a year, and convince her self so thoroughly that upon waking it was with a thrilling sense of expectancy, a sort of 'I just can't wait 'til that day!'. Or maybe it would be two years. Or three. It didn't matter, in those early morning times she was convinced she could wait eternally. She would lay in her queen sized bed, the same she had shared with him since the two had first begun living together, and almost feel his warmth beside her, could almost feel his large, calloused hands sliding over her hip and up her side to rest on her shoulder, or touch her hair. Could almost feel him press his mouth to the back of her ear and breath deeply, saying she smelled wonderful.

That small part of her mind that felt warm and soft whenever he was near, which now felt empty as though something had been violently snatched from deep within her skull, would be filled again with bright golden light.

She rubbed her palms together to keep them from stiffening up too much. Perhaps she could slip into Gohan's room and borrow his electric blanket. She had purchased it for him last year when, after a few months of agonizing he finally admitted that the intense cold of the exceptionally dry winter made his left shoulder ache deeply at the socket. She had bawled him out for taking so long to tell her... And then she went to her room and commenced bawling of a different nature. She wanted her little boy back, the one who cried when he had a _scraped knee_. That's what children were supposed to do. She wanted to comfort him, not have_ him_ protect _her_.

Like father like son. She could deny it all she wanted, but Son Goku and... and his son were not normal people. They weren't even human. That didn't mean she loved them any less. That just meant she didn't understand them, couldn't begin to relate to them through anything _but_ love... and grief, as she was finding out.

The door rapped hollowly.

Glad she had resisted crying, the woman answered with a clear voice and assurance that her face was clear of incriminating red blotches and swellings. "Yes?"

"Mother?" The door creaked open and her son's pale face appeared over the door jamb, "Is everything okay?"

She smiled warmly; it was impossible to hide from him, "I was just thinking... and it's a bit cold in here."

"Oh." He looked behind him, out of her view, then back, "Um... may we come in and speak with you for a moment?"

She didn't have time to ask who 'we' would happen to be when the door was pushed the rest of the way open by Yamcha, who stood a good foot taller than the boy next to him, "Yeah, we got something we really needa' talk to you about."

She took a deep breath to help steady her nerves, "Come in."

She noticed Gohan was carrying something behind his back, and looking down in a guilty, nervous way, "Ah... we..."

"Gohan told me all about this situation of yours," Yamcha stepped in, his words clearer, his demeanor more confident, "And we've been giving it some serious thought." She considered telling him as politely and inoffensively as possible that it was none of his business, but didn't have time, "And we want to help! I understand there isn't muchuvah choice in all this, but... well, as the widow of one of my closest friends, and the once-strongest man 'under the heavens' -- that's not even mentioning the mother of the current strongest kid in the universe -- you deserve the chance to have more self-dignity than these people are allowing you. So-"

"So!...," Gohan tried entering the conversation; she was figuring out that his hesitancy was coming from guilt about meddling, "So I, well, Yamcha-san and I..." He sighed at such blundering, and instead said in conclusion only, "Here," and brought forth what he was hiding behind his back.  
  
Whatever she was expecting, this was a true surprise. Her jaw dropped, in all its ladylike fashion, "That's...!"

"It's Otousan's nyoi bo," her son said with a small smile, "He gave it to me a few years ago when we were still training for the Jinzouningen. We... well, you can use any weapon of... your choosing..." He was beginning to blush, "I... read the letter of challenge. I'm really sorry, I know you wouldn't have wanted me to but I really had to know, so..."

"So we decided the best weapon any warrior could ask for was without question the nyoi bo of Son Gohan, Goku's grandfather. It's indestructible, powerful, enchanted-"

"It's really light, too!" Gohan quickly added, "So it doesn't take time to gather momentum like a metal sword would!" He held it out for her to take, seeming more like a guilt-wriddled child presenting to his mother with an accidentally broken vase rather than an experienced warrior presenting his contemporary with a prize weapon.

"An' since it can elongate and retract almost instantly, it can be used in both closed-in and wide open fighting areas," Yamcha said, all grins. 

Though it was still mostly in its peculiar traveling 'tube', when she rested her hand on the small, bright red portion of the nyoi bo sticking out of the top end, her other hand absently rubbing the yellow cord that once kept it tied around her husband's torso, she realizing the weapon felt warm. She expected it to be cold, like metal or glass (a material equal to it had never been found by science). But it was warm. And it felt nice in her cold hands. Warm and smooth.

Would it be wrong? To use such a weapon? Would it be cheating? To use her former husband's prized and only weapon he deemed worthy to use besides his own lethal weapon of a body, to ward off her _future_ husband's advances? And if it was... then was she to remain widow for the rest of her potentially long life?

It was warm and smooth in her hands. 

"I... don't know how to use it," she said hesitantly, sliding it out of its tube to hold in all ten of her fingers.

Both Yamcha and Gohan seemed to jump expectantly and happily at this, Yamcha beating the boy to the punch, "That's the easy part! Yer' looking at two of the most capable warriors on the planet! I spent the first half of my life using swords and staffs!"

Gohan, firm in his resolve, quickly verified, "And Tousan showed me how to control the nyoi bo's enchanted abilities! I would be happy to teach them to you!"

She ran her hands up and down the staff, turning it one way then another, looking down its perfectly straight shaft. It was perfect, flawless... and warm to her cold hands.

"If... yes. I can't... well, I can't come up with any better idea. It's terrific. Yes. Let's do it." She said finally, slipping it back into its tube.

"Hai!" Gohan yelped.

"Right!" Yamcha raised his fist.

She closed her eyes, and hoped it was the right choice. Because she wanted it to be so very much.

* * *

** Last Part Index Next Part**

** Chelsee's Fanfiction Land Fanmanga Fanfiction FanArt Odds and Ends Links Email**


	4. VE: 3 Of A Successful Restaurant

Some scenes in the following chapter are done in manga-form. This is my first experiment with such an endeavor, and is the reason this particular sequence took such a long time to be completed. I _will_ used this technique again in the future, but not for a while, and only when I feel it would, visually, be entirely necessary.

It's simply too taxing and takes far too long to be very practical.

This part was going to have three manga-scenes. It has been cut in half to only have one scene. The other two scenes (my fingers allowing it), as well as a few written sequences between them will be withheld until part 1.4. (Which should, theoretically, take less time, considering preliminary sketches and mental mapping of such manga pages has already been accomplished.)

I make no apologies for the delay, however. I write for my own enjoyment.

* * *

**The Variation Elements**

**1.3 Of A Successful Restaurant**

"The secret of a successful restaurant is sharp knives."  
-- George Orwell

* * *

It was not the first time she had done things this way. In the past, she had often utilized her unique size and qualities of appearance to gain all that she had honestly wanted... and wherever these failed, her beloved friend would get it for her. 

"Meow," she said to the man, walking pointedly into the room on four delicate paws.

He looked up from the book he was reading, his red hair dangling over one ear before swiping it carefully into place. "Hey, cat." He replied, looking awkward in her presence.

She sat down and began meticulously licking the fur into place on her paw, running it over the back of her head and over her ear, watching him through one eye. He was observing her with such precise attention, in what struck her as wonder and fear and... marvel. A blue cat was indeed a rare sight, but not so much that he would be _this_ bemazed...

Tentatively, the man set his reading material down and pushed his chair back, leaning down and holding out an offering hand, clicking his tongue, "Here, cat. Here, puss, that a good girl."

Well, her pride both smoothed and ruffled. He had gotten her sex correctly this time, though she did not like being called in such a condescending manner. She came to him, anyway, meandering through the room as she went like any respectable feline, her ears twitching. When she reached his outstretched hand, sniffing it distrustfully -- it smelled of soap and the acidic tang of ink that came from new books (give her an old book, any day) Finally, she butted her head against the hand and went on walking, sitting beneath his chair.

He leaned over completely and looked at her from between his legs. "I've never seen a cat before," he said. She pretended not to hear him, her tail twitching in some form of catly anxiety. He went on, "There really aren't any animals where I come from... Some livestock, maybe, but I've never seen anything furry up close before... alive, at any rate."

She turned and looked into his eyes a moment, then at his feet, snagging one of his leather shoe laces with a white claw.

"The Blue Monarch has only inhabited humans for the past two decades, since the Warthog Riot broke out." She looked up at him again, curious. Gliding out from under his chair, she leapt to his lap and began cleaning the white spot on her chest. "You're not listening to me, are you, Cat?" He rubbed her head in an awkward manner, "But that's okay. Your fur is softer than I thought it would be."

She settled down with her limbs tucked under her body, allowing him to pet her back, though exposing no scratchable tummy.

"I don't think Father would be pleased if he knew I was playing with a cat. Do you understand a word I'm saying? Father says there's no such thing as a sentient animal... they can be tricky, crafty, lucky... they can be clever. They can even talk and travel on two legs and hold jobs. But they're still only animals. It wouldn't be fair otherwise; humans have survived on this planet only by being the smartest, the most dexterous and ambitious and brightest creatures on the planet. You animals have your teeth and your claws and your acute senses. We have brains meant for thinking."

She was supposed to start purring. That's what she would have done if she did not understand what he was saying.

Maybe she was just a dumb animal. But she was also an offended one.

"That's why it wouldn't be fair for animals to be as smart as humans. Because then humans would eventually be killed. That's what happened in the Riot; the Blue Monarch animals started rebelling and killing the Blue Monarch citizens... And the humans simply could not defend themselves. A human will fare poorly against a wolf regardless if it's on four legs or two, with or without clothes. No creature with sentience could tear another sentient creature's stomach open with its teeth."

He seemed to have slowed down in petting her, as though realizing she, being a carnivore, ate her mice raw and warm and kicking.

She hopped down from his lap in disgust, a deep-seeded amount of curiosity also newly ingrained in her agenda.

* * *

He was the only member who had no hidden agendas in the scene, no secret emotions, and then only because he held no fear of being as vocal as he pleased (or rather, as much as he could get away with when in the company of his hostess). 

Even his precious furry accomplice held a degree of deceit, insisting before hand and politely inclining the other members of the family to allow her to, for now, maintain a charade of lower intelligence. She wished to remain "nonsentient" so long as the Blue Monarch prince was in the same room. She even willingly dined from a dish set on the floor (fresh fish, prepared by their hostess; it was not a bad meal at all), lapping creme from a saucer, rather than sipping from a straw as he knew was her favorite method of drinking.

Sitting to his right was his hostess, Chi-Chi. His dearest friend's widow. She smiled at the compliments on her cooking, and she met their eyes when she spoke to them; she was the essence of civility and good grace, clear, clipped voice, a guarded yet warm smile... He had to wonder why he never realized she was a princess before. It was so obvious, now, watching her deal with her company with the same trained composure of a diplomat. The elegant way her wrist turned to serve them their meals, which gave no hint of the muscle in her slender arms, no sign that in under a second she could break a full grown man's nose with her palm. She was dainty and proper, even while juggling an infant under one arm. She was beautif-

She was his dearest friend's widow. He didn't actually know her very well. She had always remained something more intimate than acquaintance by her title of Son Goku's wife. Later, the second title, Son Gohan's mother. Still she maintained no title of her own. And now...? Now she was Son Goku's widow. He narrowed his eyes and took a very large helping of sirloin, perfectly seasoned and spiced... Were she to remarry... would she still even hold a title among them?

Seated across from her (to his left), in all his grand, too-perfect, shiny-buttoned glory, sat Prince Jondalar. His hair was perfectly groomed, his jaw meticulously shaven (he ran a hand over his own face, feeling the beginnings of his five-o'-clock shadow creeping out; were he to have any choice he would just let it grow. It was his furry accomplice that insisted he looked better shorn.) The prince ruffled him. He made him want to just lean over the table and smear some food across his expensive shirt. Were he still a reckless teenager, he probably would have wanted to do much worse, settling for jumping the man on the first instant they were left alone and stealing his capsule case and wallet, if not killing him in such a humiliating way as to ram his sword clear up that prissy ass of his...

He chewed savagely at his meal, surprised as he realized he was eating the most zealously amongst his fellow diners. Across the table sat Gohan, who, instead of decimating his meal as his father would have done by now... he merely picked at his food.

That was concerning. Any growing child should maintain a healthy appetite much less... He shook his head. Gohan was a tough kid for all his diffidence. He'd be okay.

"Miss Chi-" Jondalar began to speak just as Gohan suddenly began to say, "Moth-"

They both looked at each other, and for a moment he noticed his young friend's chi give a restless twitch. It wasn't aggressive (Gohan was not aggressive) but it was... volatile. The prince squirmed as he recognized without consciously realizing it the hint of threat. That was interesting: People didn't didn't often possess such a strong grasp of chi; perhaps he had a portion of natural talent? 

How amusing it would have been to witness a son and a suitor compete for the lady's attention were not two such members close to his heart.

He took the initiative of sieving the awkward silence with the mundane compliment of, "I've said it before, but you make the best _anything_ when it comes to food." ... Surely he was not also competing for attention in the compliment, even if the prince did snatch him a look. At least Gohan trusted him enough to not even look up from the pea, which he had been chasing-and-missing around his plate for the past ten minutes. He looked up, then down again, likely caught up in his own adolescent thoughts.

She thanked him, making eye contact for the perfect length of time, making it neither insincere but leaving no room for deeper affections... She could be cold.

Jondalar stepped up next, "I was thinking of driving down to town this Monday... before the big snow flies." (Chewing at his steak, he made a low snort in the back of his throat; no one had invited him, but the prince had made it clear he intended to spend the winter with them one way or another... though he couldn't say anything, as he was also planning to.) "Do you need anything while I'm there?"

The hostess looked at him strangely for a moment, then looked at Gohan with a look of puzzlement and wonder on her face (his chi had done something peculiar as well; another twitch, as he noted.)

"I... was about to say the same thing." Was all the boy said, talking to his plate. He set his fork down, "It will probably snow sooner; Sunday would be a better day." He quietly got up from the table and pushed in his chair, carrying his plate to the sink, saying, "Dinner was very good, Mother, thank you." And he left the room.

The woman continued to remain quiet, looking after him with a peculiar expression of both resignation and anxiousness.

Say something, idiot. He didn't know if it was his own thought or Puar's. "Maybe we can _all_ go to town. Just us guys."

The prince turned and looked over the table at him, his eyes wide, "... How does he know when it will snow?"

He leaned across the table, elbow resting on its wooden surface. Looking deep into green, royal eyes. "Don't you know?  


"_He can smell it_."

* * *

Green eyes opened to the crisp, white light of a winter morning. He had awakened in the same manner exactly the morning before: Cold, altitude-induced headache, miserable... and the morning before that, and before and before again... 

He groaned and threw back his feather blanket, and held still. Staring up at his ceiling. He had again been dreaming of Genevah, of just sitting and talking and playing board games and dancing... and slowly running his hand up silky inner thighs to...

Sitting up, he shut his mind off from that direction. He could not think of... things such as that. There had been deceit. He had forgiven it. 

It was... Saturday. They would be going into town tomorrow. The strange, quiet boy, with all his dead plants. And the tall, feral man that had now taken up residence in the Son house, with his small blue cat always perched on his shoulder and his muscles evident even through the thick sweaters and flannels that he wore, with his sword hanging easily at his side. The cat perhaps unnerved him more than anything else. He had never actually seen a cat before; none had been within the walls of the Blue Monarch Citadel since...

In the silence of the morning, he realized something was missing. A sound... that had been there for the past week that he had been staying here.

The _shhhtk, shhtk, shhtk_ of a rake. It normally woke him up. Son Gohan always devoted his time to working outside in the early hours of the day when there was no one to disturb him, raking up the fallen leaves just as fast as they fell.(The frost had frozen the ground three nights before, so he could no longer plant things.)

Something was different this morning. The routine had been changed. Groggily climbing out of bed -- he had finally given in and begun wearing pajamas as opposed to merely what Kami had given him -- he shuffled his way to the window to see what was amiss, scratching his stomach with one hand, stroking his stubbly chin with the other.

His hands dropped to his sides when he got to the window.

A large, circular patch of the lawn now entirely lacked grass. The brown, bald patch looked as though it had been burned in a perfect circle, though he surely would have noticed a fire over the course of the night.... 

Within the circle stood Son Gohan and Chi-Chi (she was radiant in the morning sun, dressed in purple, her puffs of frozen air delicate as they exited her lips... They were not dressed in their normally refined and carefully sewn clothes they wore about the house; they had donned looser material that could only be... fighting clothes.

Their bare arms and fingers in the cold weather was a hint that they intended to get warm through different, more active means.

It was when the boy handed the woman a peculiar staff, and pulled out a sheathed sword for himself that he mentally grasped just what was occurring.

They were going to train.

* * *

(FFN readers will not be able to view this scene, as it is in manga format. Consult my current website.) 

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* * *

_-just cannot spar with Mutter. I tried. It is too frightening. There is a part inside of me that gets too eager._

_I thought that more than anything, I would become frustrated. I've never stood in combat against someone less skilled than myself; I'm accustomed to training with people stronger than me. That was what made Piccolo so irate for the first month he trained me -- it wasn't that I was particularly bad. It was just too limited in strength. And indeed, when withstanding Mutter's attacks I feel a sense of mediocrity. Not really in **her** actions, and not in my own but this overhead, presiding feeling relating to the entire situation._

_But, though I wasn't 'enjoying' it, persay_... _I was aware of being almost thrilled._

_I could only have inherited the particular excited side from meinen Vater. I would dare to call it my Saiyan 'half', though the concept is frightening, as it would suggest, then, that the 'rational' side must be the human 'half'._

_If that is the case, then it was my Saiyan 'half' that wanted to kill scare push Mutter farther than necessary. It somehow recognized her as weaker, and wanted to -- I'm not going to follow on this thought, to avoid repeating my previous thoughts and/or fears._

_I don't want to think of that. I'm sure that I've only become more aware of my non-human traits now that I have begun trying to hide them from Der Prinz's notice. I wonder if it isn't silly, as he will be around for the rest of his life. I am sorry for the shaky handwriting when I wrote that. I really don't like the thought._

_But he is going to have to find out some day that I am not entirely normal. I already have to slip out of the house a few hours before or after dinner to catch and eat something, as I have been only eating 'human-sized' portions at the dinner table. It is beginning to worry Mutter, but she hasn't said anything; I think she wants to convince herself that I'm becoming more human._

_I wish I were._

_Jetzt kann ich nicht mehr schreiben. Ich muss für ein bischen denken-_

* * *

The cashier of the small grocery watched closely the three individuals in her shop; the two men carried swords, which kept her slightly more wary than normal -- it was a sight not often seen in these small, mostly poor mountain towns. The boy with them she knew well enough; he lived up the mountain, in the old Son residence where the great martial arts master used to live. 

Peculiar lot; the tallest man, carrot-top, dressed with material too fine to have been processed outside of the most modern of cities; decked from head to toe in rich stuff; shiny buttons, gaudy belt, shoe buckles that drew attention all the way down there to his feet. Fine, pressed leather vest. City folk. The other man could have been his polar opposite; scruffy, course wool over coat (he was probably warm, though; she one-upped him for practicality), ill-trimmed hair and poorly shaven (though it was obvious he put some effort into maintaining himself, unlike many of the men in the winter up in this region.)

And of course, the open yet still unexplainable boy from up the mountain, hardly wearing any jacket at all, though by now she knew better than to inquire if he was cold or daft.

The Sons never were a normal lot.

Carrot-top was commenting on the large sack the boy had slung over his shoulder, "That is a large amount of salt." He had a foreign dialect. A pox on the all the foreign city folk; they weren't welcome up here where the decent folk worked hard for a living...

The scruffy man seemed irritated by the comment, while the boy spoke in a precise fashion that was rarely used by the common mountain dwellers, "We need it to preserve and dry our meat over the winter." The cashier was familiar with the concept; not many families up here got fresh meat when most of the animals were hibernating underground, or the fish frozen at the bottom of a lake. Having a good store of dried meats deep in the winter kept a man sane and healthy.

"You're satisfied to eat jerky for an entire season?" The refined man asked, making the cashier wonder if he wasn't used to more delicate items on his menu. 

The boy gave him a sharp look, "Mother is creative when she uses it; she puts it in rice, soup, dicing it up for salad or cutting it into sections for casseroles... you never taste the same thing twice..." He seemed to grow embarrassed at talking for even that amount of time and, blushing, he drifted off and let the statement shrivel at the end. The cashier couldn't honestly think of a time she'd heard the boy say so much in a single statement.

The scruffy man made a point to clear his throat, as though warning the carrot top to leave well enough alone.

"Then our next stop would be to the butcher's then? Or perhaps a slaughter house, if the quantity is terribly great...," carrot top inquired, reading the handwritten labels on the fruit preserves neatly shelved by date; they were jarred for the grocery by the lady down the street for extra money in the winter, which the cashier's boss was not adverse to paying, considering how hard times got for people in the colder seasons.

"What?" The boy asked as he retrieved a cart and added to his large sack of salt an equally large sack of flour, and sugar, too. "No; the only other place we need to visit is the Capsule Corporation building."

The carrot top looked perplexed, "When do we get the meat, then? You're going to be needing a lot if you want it to last the season."

The boy answered quietly, as though not particularly wanting to, "I'll... be going hunting soon, maybe after the first snow, before most of the animals tuck down. If I'm lucky I can catch a... I'm not sure. It's been a really dry summer, so a lot of the game has moved down the mountain to follow last winter's snow run-off..."

"Game's good on the southern slope, so says Pappy," the cashier butted in, gesturing for the trio to approach to be rung up. The boy smiled gratefully, having to life the larger sacks for her to mark them down (those Sons and their freakish strength...)

* * *

"Why are we going to Capsule Corporations?" 

"... I need to get something."

A motioning hand, prompting a further explanation.

A sigh, and a glance out the window to the scenery whizzing by below.

"He just needs something, okay? You sure ask a lot of questions."

"... it was a harmless inquiry."

The dialect was mimicked, "'_vas a 'armless inqviry_'... look, I'm driving, so I getta' set the rules. And I say no more talking until we get there."

"Yamcha-"

"No _talking_, Gohan, it counts for you, too."

He didn't say it, but he was not looking forward to arriving at their destination. It was his own problem. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly.

He wished Puar were with him.

* * *

"It's warmer down here than it is in the mountains." 

She answered, "I don't doubt it."

He sipped his hot cider. She watched him do it. When he set his mug down, eyes fixed carefully on the table top, she only continued to watch him.

"So...," She attempted, "How are things going with Chi-Chi and Gohan?"

"Oh, they're good." He ascended, smiling mindlessly, happy to be able to talk about something not directly involved, so that he wouldn't have to... talk about anything directly involved, "Very good. She's a natural. She keeps a good grip and balance and has learned a lot even after training for only two days. She can copy every move I show her by the second or third try... the type of pupil any master would pray for."

"Oh, sorry." She said, canting her head. Curse those stray blue strands of soft hair (oh, he knew _just_ how soft) that had escaped her barrette, covering part of her brow, "Are you training her? I thought Gohan was going to..."

"He is... too. We both are." He slid his mug back and forth across the table top; she realized right then that it was his favorite of all the many cups kept in the large house. She hadn't realized she had given it to him... she had gotten it out for him so many times in the past that it was an automatic action now. "It's just that Gohan doesn't feel entirely comfortable sparring with her. The power difference is too different, and when he fights he... well he says he 'uses different parts of his brain' than when he does other things.

So now that he's taught her how to use the enchanted parts of the Nyoi-bo, he's putting me in charge of most of the combat training -- I do know more about weapons than he does," he didn't seem to have any specific pride when he said it; it was just a statement. She sighed internally, he always seemed so defeated and dead when he was around her, even now that he was willing to speak to her again, "Gohan now works on teaching her to use chi. He's like his father, there: He's incredible at grasping how to control chi; he was flying by the time he was five, you know?. He says she'll probably be able to fly by the end of the month maybe... or at least hovering."

"That's terrific!" She said, clapping her hands together.

"Yeah." He said, his finger sliding around the rim of his mug, "So... did you get Gohan the capsule he needed?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, we... ah, we just completed the standard issue of training room, heating installed." When she swallowed, it sounded too loud in the room. "It should work for you guys all winter..."

He looked on way, then another, then finally started to stand up, "I better go. Vegita doesn't usually like me hanging arou-"

"Forget about it, he's gotten behind on his training recently and won't be out of the gravity chamber for at least a few more hours." She said hastily. "Sit down. I'm sure us old friends have more to say to each other than just that!"

He looked at her strangely, then slowly sank back into his seat.

"How have you been?" She started out.

"Fine." He said, looking across the room at the window.

"... And Puar?"

"She's fine, too." He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his seat, eyes closed.

"Oh." She kept on smiling, though her stomach was sinking into his knees. "That's good."

"Yeah. We're both good." His eyebrows were drawing together, "Look, I think I should go-"

"But we're just getting started! There's plenty more to talk about!"

His eyes snapped open, and she was surprised to see them so sharp and fierce, "There isn't anything more to talk about."

She finally snapped, standing up hastily enough to send her chair tipping over behind her, "Would you stop being such a whiny little creep and just accept what's happened!?"

He hadn't moved at all, not showing an ounce of surprise at the explosion, "I have accepted it. That's why I don't think I should be here. Normally when there's a competition between Clueless Boyfriend Number One and Secret Boyfriend Number Two, and Clueless Number One loses, he's supposed to leave the happy couple alone to raise Secret Number Two's son."

"Not this again...," She said, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and index finger.

"I was willing to wait outside. You asked me to come in. I didn't want to. It's not customary. We're supposed to avoid each other now." He pushed his mug away from himself, as though it sickened him or hurt him at such a proximity, "You could have at least told me straight, instead of just... not."

"Are you going to hold it against me forever then?" She asked crossly, snatching the mug off the table, almost throwing it across the room in her frustration and rage and... well, immense guilt, though she would rather he not know she felt remorse for her actions. She was a genius and heir to the wealthiest corporation in the world. She could be a bitch. She made a very good bitch. But she did not make mistakes. And she never regretted her actions.

There were some things she did not do.

"I don't hold it against you anymore... I'm just tired. When I come over and I see little Trunks playing, I don't feel angry. He's so cute, and Gohan is so happy to have other kids around. But I don't think you can understand what it was like. To just plow along, blind and content in my blindness, not clever enough to think otherwise... When I first found out you were pregnant, I actually thought it was mine somehow, though I couldn't really figure out how. We've never actual had sex... came close a couple times, but... You could have at least told me that I wasn't the father, instead of just laughing and shrugging."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to get yourself killed. Vegita is a bit protect-"

"Yeah. I know what he's capable of. He _did_ kill me once." 

Her teeth clamped shut. She hadn't really thought of it that way.

"I'll see that Chi-Chi knows you said 'Hi.'" He said simply, carefully pushing his seat back as he stood up again. "Tell Gohan that I'll see him when he gets home... and tell Jondalar that he can drive my truck."

She was left standing there in the empty kitchen, staring after him.

She was left standing there, unsure if she should feel righteous indignation or guilt at past decisions.

"Yamcha...," she whispered, and then forced from herself, "You bastard." And she cleared away their mugs.

* * *

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	5. VE: 4 Everything From Happening

**The Variation Elements**

**1.4 Everything From Happening**

_"Time is what keeps everything from happening at once."  
-- Robert Bloch_

_"Space is what stops everything from happening in the same place."  
-- Arthur C. Clark_

* * *

(FFN readers will not be able to view this scene, as it is in manga format. Consult my current website.) 

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* * *

The bovine horns were not entirely natural. Though they _were_ real ivory, grown from the skull of an authentic living animal... they had not been grown from his _own_ personal arsenal of bone. 

It was a tradition stemming from eleven generations of monarchy, from when the title Ox King was given to a king whose skull was so sturdy and thick that he could ram his opponents, head down, and crush their ribs and sternum with the top of his head like an ox. His heirs inherited this very same feature, (one was even said to have deflected a loosed arrow from his bare, unhelmeted head) until, two generations later, an experimental surgery was performed to attach a set of true ox horns into the thick expanse of the king's skull.

Through a marvel of ancient technology, the horns were not only accepted by the body, but took root and begun growing anew as time went on.

The was tradition ever since, passed from one father to his heir the day he took the throne.

_And_, he was thinking to himself as he leaned over a high balcony, looking down at his kingdom, _It is a tradition that will die with me_.

He hadn't thought to pass the procedure to his daughter -- the female heirs were spared the procedure -- and, when first meeting Son Goku and observing his peculiar tail, while developing his future matrimonial plans for the boy had thought, _Yes, I could pass the reign of the Ox to the reign of the Monkey_. When the tail trait had been also passed onto their son, he was nearly set.

But it was not going to happen now, he didn't think.

Yes, through this second marriage of his daughter he would be able to keep his kingdom and his life, but neither were really his own now. They were Dunadar's, and when the emperor died or decided he would pass on his power to his son, a foreigner to Fry Pan, and then this kingdom would be nullified. Without having to say it, the propositioned marriage had insinuated that, on the day Jondalar and Chi-Chi became king and queen, the Fry Pan kingdom would be annexed into the Blue Monarch Empire.

And there would be no more reigns of the Ox.

He had to lean heavily on the railing as he ambled to a large chair placed on the balcony for him; his weight, which made him so ruddy and powerful in his youth, was becoming more of a burden than an asset. The doctor had said during one of the last (increasingly frequent) checkups that it was a wonder he hadn't had a heart attack yet. He rocked in his chair, staring down the mountain at his kingdom, staring down the mountain that had once been immersed in the flames that had given it its name, rubbing his arthritic hands together and he wondered.

He wondered about what was to happen in the future. What would happen to his beautiful daughter, who so much resembled her mother it hurt a place in his heart.

His confidence was waning. The once clear plans, so solid they were tangible were now heaps of desolate ruin to behold; things had gone along at such a hectic pace these last few years, it was as though everything was happening at once and he simply could not decipher what it was that kept time and space from looping back upon themselves in all the confusion.

Damn all of this! Goku was supposed to end up the king! Gohan and whatever other children they might have had (they were still so young!) would have been all the little princes and princesses. He wanted to be able to hand the position over and spend the last of his days watching his heirs grown into maturity.

He was massive and powerful. He was a king. He wished his old friend Son Gohan were around; he was always the cooler head and gave such perfect advice, it only seemed natural, so _appropriate_, that his grandson (adopted nor not!) should...

He had no idea if he had made the right decision with this Blue Monarch situation. Being the king, however, meant leaving such doubts hidden to all outside eyes.

He rubbed his gnarled hands over his face until the skin stretched and observed his little town from above.

* * *

This car did not hover over the ground on a cushion of air as his own did; instead, it lumbered on four wheels and though it had good shock absorption and traction it was still a truck and nothing more. Typical that it would belong to a such a middle-class individual as the man Yamcha. 

The company with him was as equally un-stimulating as the car. 

It was hard to not glance out of the corner of his vision at the prominent (and quite fresh) dark ring around the boy's eye. He would like to claim it was concern, and perhaps on a level it was, but it was mostly the common, morbid, human curiosity that made him wish social sanctions did not forbid him ask what had happened.

Prying, he had learned, was a villainous means to acquire information. The blunt 'this is my question' approach his father was accustomed to involved a certain self-importance that he could not yet withhold. Were Genevah here, tactics of honey tempered with subtle wheedling could divulge international secrets with grace.

None of these methods were available to him, through lack of training, technique and natural talent, "Ah," he said to the boy, who was resting chin in palm to look out the window, expression blank, "Are you... all right?"

Blink. The boy startled, then created a very thin, impersonal smile on his face (which was just losing the last of its childhood plumpness), "Oh, yes, Jondalar-san," -- that was what he was calling him now, since the request to cease the too-formal title of 'Prince' -- "I'm fine." The corner of the smile twitched, then the lips turned in on themselves to purse. "Please... don't mention to my mother...," he made a vague movement of his head to insinuate the rest of the sentence. "She gets upset, sometimes, if she thinks I've been fighting."

In truth, it probably would have slipped his mind anyway to ask Chi-Chi about any such incidents... but now that a boon was being asked for, a question could be answered as a returned favor, "All right, if you feel it would be in her best interest to not know... but tell _me_ at least what happened?" (His 'would' and 'what' were 'vould' and 'vat'.) Human curiosity, he was finding, was far more superior and unrelenting than a cat's.

The reply was long in coming and unsatisfying in completion, "I had a disagreement with someone."

He almost asked more... when the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the roots of his honey-colored hair bristled in a sudden chill that overcame him; for a split second he felt a strong fear of the boy... A sense of danger that made his fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel. He glanced about for a few minutes more, hither and thither, trying to find a source for this almost tangible sensation of... capability, _invulnerability_, rolling aggressively over his body. It was disturbing how much of a presence this seemingly dull, inanimate youth could have.

He listened to the council of his vague and normally silent human instincts, and let that vein of topic drop.

In a dull monotone, the boy mentioned through his thoughtfully blank look out the windshield, "You're in the wrong lane."

Still, not comfortable with the heavy silence of the traveling auto, he corrected his navigation in both his driving and conversation, "So Miss Chi-Chi is truly going to be using the legendary Nyoi bo in our battle this spring?"

A nod, mein seeming so very tempered with an unchild-like maturity and neutrality.

"And you're training her?"

"Yamcha-san and I are certainly trying to." A politically correct answer, another polite, tempered smile.

He couldn't hide that he was remarkably impressed, "You seem to know quite a lot about weapons combat." He managed to avoid adding _'for a kid_', though he was aware that, compared to the perfect, dictionary pronunciation the boy used, he had said 'qvite a lot'.

"I only know what my Father and Piccolo-san taught me." 

Yes, he had indeed said Piccolo. The reincarnation of the Demon King. The same creature that had once zealously pursued the life of Son Goku, the boy's _father_, destroying most of the Boudokai while he was at it (the same Boudokai in which he, personally, had experienced his first heartbreak.)

Still, he had already known the feud between Piccolo and the Son family had died out. In fact, when carousing the Son residence a few days earlier, he had come across a startling photograph of the terrible demon himself, standing in all his power, long green arms crossed, head lowered in a menacing expression that said 'I barely tolerate you,'... and perched atop his broad swathed shoulder, grinning widely, was a young Son Gohan. (Of course, he had made the mistake of asking _Yamcha_ about it, the answer coming from between a grin of fiercely bared teeth, "Yeah. Old Piccolo and Gohan are pretty close. He's what you could almost call a _second father_ to the kid." How he _hated_ that man.)

The connections these Sons had, while not all noble, were formidable indeed. Bulma Briefs, Piccolo Jr., the Sr. Son Gohan, Gyuu Mao... 

"Well," he let it go, "It's fortunate your family inherited such a fine weapon from your great grandfather Son Gohan." (He pronounced it 'veapon'.)

"He's not really my great grandfather," the boy corrected, though it almost seemed more the first dispute he could find with the statement."Son Gohan adopted my father, though it was official. I've searched all the archives for the surrounding ten miles and can find no paperwork legitimizing it."

... this was certainly a revelation. One of the few accreditations he had allowed the notorious Son Goku was his relation to the martial arts master Son Gohan, fellow pupil of Gyuu Mao under the legendary Mutenroshi-sama.

He spoke through the warring of curiosity and reluctant courtesy,"Son Goku is not the biological heir of Son Gohan? Then who _is_ he descended from?"

"We don't know. My father has no known birth certificate."

Stranger and more engaging _yet_, "Well, where is he from? Where did Son Gohan adopt him from?"

"He was found in the woods... abandoned, I guess you could say, when he was very young." And then to attempt stifling the already heated flames, "Look, _none_ of us know who his parents were -- With Bulma-san's advanced computer network, if there was any trace of them in existence it would have been found by now."

Shaking his head in wonder, he spoke partially to just hear out loud what was being said, to see if it even sounded feasible (though he didn't have a doubt that it was true), "So... Son Goku had _no_ home country, _no_ known parents and _no_ official guardian?" To a man _born_ into high status such as himself, title and family history were rudimentary ingredients to even prove existence. How had that man accomplished as much as he had without even knowing his original given name?

"My father became a legal citizen of the Fry Pan Mountain kingdom when he married my mother, just as I inherited my citizen ship though I was born in the Paozu mountain area." (It was a known fact that the Paozu chain of mountains, named from the original mountain the Son's now called home, had once all belonged to Son Gohan. When the aging martial artist began developing his more hermit-like tendencies, he ended up giving most of it away. The final Paozu mountain, however, and the surrounding twenty miles or so, having never been owned by any specific nation of kingdom, was a neutral district that claimed no distinct government or community, thus disabling the few people living there from claiming actual residency.) "Father's home has always been the little house on Paozu mountain." 

Was the next question strong to the point of cruel? "Is that where he is buried?" Perhaps it was, but he actually had dual reasons for asking: finding a burial lot in a cemetery would have been difficult without all the paper work that was supposedly missing. Besides that, it was an ongoing mystery among those that had known of the great Son Goku as to what had actually become of the body... a question only rivaled by 'What, indeed, _killed _him in the end?' (That is not to say that many of the people curious about the body's whereabouts weren't interested in digging it up to see it, or examine it or, among a few select scientists Son Goku had rebuked in life, experiment on to determine what exactly it was that made his feats of physical prowess possible.)

It wasn't until he heard the answer that he realized, through his strong curiosity, he had failed to heed his warning-instincts, discovering his palms slick and sweaty on the wheel while his teeth chattered to an indefinable chill.

Short, blunt and so controlled, so absolute masked in composure that it was frigid cold, "No." He continued looking out the windshield as though discussing a book he had just read, "My father's body was destroyed. There was nothing left to bury." And then the partially lidded eyes looked directly at him, no longer dull or disinterested, but agleam with a smoldering sense of animocity and ferocity, "And I'm asking you to honor my request to not question further about it, Jondalar, sir." He disengaged his sweltering expression to melt back to the world outside the car.

Another word was not dared the rest of the trip, he proceeded with his shoulders hunched against the cold sense of doom that had filled the car, for fear of attracting some unknown but terrible occurrence that he could not name, but felt deep in his gut that would come as retribution from this boy beside him.

... but glancing from the corner of his eyes, at that purple and flesh-toned shape staring idly out the windshield beside him, he couldn't help but allow to run through his mind in a dazed sense of wonder and foreboding: _My father's body was destroyed. There was nothing left to bury._ He had been there when it happened. Son Gohan had witnessed his father's death.

And that, for all of its effects, only made him more dangerous.

* * *

He flew at high speeds, eyes closed, the buffering winds plastering his hair to his forehead, his flannel to his shoulders, whipping abrasive grit into his face at a hundred miles an hour. He wanted to forget that he'd seen her again. 

He had known it would turn out like that.

He had known there was no way he and she could get along anymore. Not after so many painful misunderstandings; how many times had she accused him of faithlessness? How many times had he grown irate at the time she spent traveling, or how little she had grown to consider him in her plans? He may have had no job (he didn't need one with his carefully stashed income but _she_ didn't know that) but he did have his own schedule. Their agendas simply did not co-align in the end; she was a rich, successful, beautiful woman and (as far as he let anyone knew) he was an often-homeless vagabond with a scarred face and a criminal record.

Besides, she never remembered Puar. He couldn't take an exotic vacation to an exotic island resort at the drop of a hat and leave her behind to tend the house, which had been suggested more that once. He depended on his furry accomplice more than he would like to admit, and being away from her for more than a few days at a time made him feel insecure and useless.

As he ascended in altitude, nearing the Paouzu mountains, he noted the air getting cooler around him, encouraging him to increase his chi.

... Despite all of that, he wished he had gotten the nerve to marry her. She was tough and lackadaisical and somehow both painfully blunt while equally whimsical to the point of fantasy that one could never tell if what she was saying was true or entirely fictitious.

He still wondered what their children would have been like. Or if he would have been able to locate his parents over these past decades and invite them to his wedding... They hadn't come any of the times he'd competed at the Boudokai, nor to any of his baseball games (though that sounded so childish, didn't it? Being a full grown man?)

He landed on the limestone gravel drive of the Son's house. His hands fisted in his pockets, he made his way to the door, which was opened by Puar before he even touched the knob, "Welcome back, Master Yamcha!" she mewled, floating out of the doorway and to the ground, her coal eyes watching him as he entered. Just by the gait of his walk she observed, "You and Miss Bulma argued."

With his furry accomplice, he wasn't required to reply, just as she wasn't required to ask permission before leaping to his shoulder to comfortingly occupy the space behind his neck and speak into his ear, "Miss Chi-Chi has been training out back all day; perhaps you could aid her?"

Yes; distraction was what he needed.

A short walk through the backyard, he found her standing in the cold, her arms bare in the uncomfortable weather, goose bumped, her breath coming from her lips in almost opaque little clouds, the Nyoi bo slashing and arcing the air in rapid bursts, her dark hair tethered back in a tight braid that ran down the center of her spine.

"You're getting very good," he commented while scratching Puar's ears.

She dropped out of her stance almost too eagerly, as though she had only been waiting for the excuse of distraction, and rested one end of her staff into the ground, supporting her weight on it. "Oh... thank you very much." And she smiled at him. It was an exhausted smile, her cheeks red in the cold weather, her eyes reflecting the dull gray of the sky; her hair was mussed, her clothing rumpled from all the activity; she looked cold and, for a split second, the facade of the princess shuddered under the weight of wanting to simply being a woman, tired and cold.

He realized his hand was resting stationary on Puar's neck, unmoving; his mouth dry. He got himself to laugh good naturedly, "You and Gohan both are too polite with your 'thank you's. It was just an observation... But why don't you come inside for a little bit to warm up? For once let me make _you_ some cocoa, hm? And then we can come back out and have a real training match."

Grateful for the excuse of even a short pause, she nodded and converted the staff to its original size, barely the length of an arm from elbow to palm, and slipped it into its tube-sheath.

Puar might have said something silently into his ear, but in the roaring wind in the autumn leaves of surrounding trees, he wasn't sure.

And the claws he felt in his shoulder were surely only to maintain balance.

* * *

Puar's blue furry body helped warm her lap as she conversed professionally as a means of stalling. She did not want to go back outside again, where the cold would make her body heat increase tenfold under her arm pits and down her back until the material there was soaking. At the same time, her fingers would loose feeling, even against the staff, which did not absorb temperature from any elements (she and Gohan-chan had experimented; chi did not make the mysterious material even remotely hot, nor did fire or boiled water.) 

Besides, talking with Yamcha was amazingly comfortable and relaxing. The man, it was true, had no honest manners, but displayed honest effort to appease her, stammering when he almost forgot "Oh... ah, thank you!" Besides that, though neither were willing to talk on the subject, there was an underlying sense of kinship betwixt them for their shared grief of Son Goku. Husband, friend, protector... father (at the thought, she looked down the hall, trying to hear if Goten was awake and crying in his bassinet, though the feline in her lap's sharper hearing had been attuned to the task all day while she had been outside.)

Once the cocoa was gone, however, and even her spectacular social talents had run low on subject of conversation, she reluctantly agreed to return to the great outdoors, staff in hand, to resume training. Puar, bless her, agreed with as much willingness as ever to stay inside to insure Goten wouldn't be left to cry alone in the house... though was it just her imagination, or did the small blue cat appear... out of sorts? Disappointed or... 

Well, one never could tell what was on under those long whiskers and all that fur. No more stalling...

They trained well together. Yamcha was about the same size and Jondalar, whose build she was initial focusing her talents to defend against, as she would eventually find herself matched against the Blue Monarch prince. That had been one of the difficulties with sparring with Gohan -- he was so much smaller that it made things difficult to compare to combating a full grown man.

... well, that was one of the reasons she was willing to _admit _to for not sparring with her son. She never mentioned the frightening few seconds at the end of their first training session. And Gohan certainly didn't seem willing to bring it up. What could be said? She had seen that wild element she had only witnessed before in her _husband_, on those rare occasions he gave way completely and... how could it be worded? He became one with battle. Goku was combat's intimate lover, and at the height of passion, in the midst of fighting, nothing mattered but fighting until only one was left standing --

-- that was why, after a few disastrous results (not unlike the situation she had found herself in with Gohan) husband and wife had agreed that, while training together was okay, sparring together was not. By a law of power and instinct.

It was not a pleasant sort of nostalgia to witness the same barrier of nature erect itself between herself and her son.

So, yes. Yamcha was a better sparring partner in the end.

They battled for nearly an hour, him pausing them from time to time to show her a better grip, or a dangerous flaw that was potentially developing, showing that a well placed match could be played almost like a game of chess, each move done to force the opponent to move to defend themselves, until... Check mate.

He would then lower his sword away from whatever vital it was pressed against, laughing, telling her what she had done right long before subtly hinting at what she could possibly have done wrong. He was a surprisingly good teacher, despite his many rough edges. Had he ever taught before? Contact with him over the years had some gaps that spanned nearly half a decade, and the more she heard him say, the more she realized just how little she knew about him aside from his ties to her husband.

Again, she wondered about Puar, realizing she knew even less about the small, sentient feline than even the man she now found herself spending most of her day with.

When Yamcha's blue truck pulled into the driveway, she was quite sweaty, her tight braid coming unkempt at the sides of her neck, a rip in one sleeve where the sharp sword had nipped a tad too close. They both paused in mid-spar as they picked out the silent yet grating hum of chi Gohan seemed to be emitting as he gracefully slid from the passenger seat and slipped almost ghostlike into the house (the stealthiness of the movements both her son and husband had been capable of never failed to unnerve her.)

She would have liked to follow her eldest inside-- he certainly didn't seem of the good cheer he had been maintaining the past year or so. Jondalar, however, was climbing out of the driver's side, looking quite... human... compared to the memories of her husband. His feet crunched on the gravel; he had to rest his hand on the seat to steady himself for a moment, and he almost caught his hand in the door when he shut it.

... He was just so... ordinary. She couldn't place what it was; his clothes were lovely, his hair vibrant and red, his eyes a lovely shade of green; he could possibly have been more handsome than her simple-faced former husband, with his dichromatic garb, unkempt hair and utter disregard for manners. So what was it that made the idea of Son Goku glow? Watching the prince pace the truck until he found the decapsulation button, she pondered. 

Many other women would take Jondalar over Son Goku in a heart beat. Goku had been an unemployed brawler who lived in a miniscule house at the very top of a mountain and didn't have any money because he'd never _needed_ it before, being able to catch and kill his food and get his water from the stream. He had needed no other ammenities.

Jondalar was a prince; he was rich; his empire was huge and growing larger.

He had the grace of a remarkable swordsman. His balance was nearly flawless, his arms at perfect readiness without having to think. He held his head as high as Goku had, his chest held out but... She couldn't place it. He simply wasn't Son Goku. Because Son Goku was not of this planet.

She had never been more aware of it than now.

... So it was disconcerting to find that instead of finding these earthly traits minuscule, she found a warm shiver had traveled up her back, leaving a hot, sweaty feeling while at the same time making her arms break out in goose flesh.

But then the prince looked at her and smiled.

... and she felt this clenching right between her lungs. It was nothing like her late husband's shameless grin; the entire facial structure was different but... it was so genuine, so relieved and though only moments before she felt he was too human to get his shine anywhere near the heights of Goku, it seemed the very down-to-earthness of Jondalar was his redeaming quality. In his smile, she could see emotion, hesitation. Doubt. Tentativity. In Goku, with his reckless abandon and endless confidence and courage, these were some of he the only things he _had lacked._

_That was Goku. Not of this planet, but that only meant he did not have human qualities. _

She started when she saw Yamcha leave very abruptly, his sword setting her teeth on edge as it gave a high-pitched metalic whine when sheathed. Through periferals, she watched him vanish into the house.

Suddenly finding herself quite alone with this man that set her nerves to such tenseness, she took a few steps back at his approach, masking the retreat by making to retrieve the Nyoi-bo's tube sheath.

"Where should we unload your groceries?" He asked (it sounded more like 'vere should ve unload your groceries'), standing a polite distance as she devoted as much of her attention as possible to putting the staff back in its tube, not wanting to look into those distinctly northern, up-turned green eyes.

"Goku-san dug a pantry for me last year, not long before he, well," she had to be brave on this topic, "Before he died."

At the mention of her husband, the prince wilted. She had never seen _Goku_ wilt before. Very rare did she visually catch Gohan doing so, either. Were humans so transparent?

He averted his spring-grass eyes to his feet, watching them shuffle. "R-right. I'll bring them in in a moment I... Well, you see, I just..." (Though he said 'vell, you see'.)

She knew she should have said something. There was a notable darkening of color crossing his cheeks, and he was likely going to say something that would only embarass them both. Being the daughter of the king and this man's betrothed, it was nearly her _duty_ to keep him from humiliating himself.

For the life of her, however, she couldn't find any correct word to say.

"... I promise to... offer you a fair battle." (He pronounced it 'vair battle'.) It was obviously not what he had planned to say, as he looked as confused to say it as she was to hear it, "Erm, this spring, that is." He nodded his head at her staff, shuffling again, "I just wanted to say that though I know the Blue Monarch isn't always known for playing fair... I do plan to."

"Oh." Was what she ended up responding with, "Good then. We'll both be fair."

He nodded and, his nerve visibly failing him, backed up a few feet, "I'll...," he tried again, and again failed, "...leave you to your training then."

She nodded.

It was amazing, the speed he suddenly employed to vanish into the house. As once again she watched her house's door open and shut (there was certainly more coming and going with their extra house guests), she could almost see the rosyness of her cheeks, result of more than just the nip in the air. 

It was flattering, Jondalar's behavior, really. Almost sad, how his composure crumbled like stale bread, but definitely flattering.

Goku had never been unnerved by her before...

She then trained hard for the rest of the afternoon as punishment for the thought.

* * *

She wasn't neccessarily mad at him so much as dissappointed, yet again, at the major difference between the both of them. And she knew him well enough to accept that he would not see their relationship as anything beside pure friendship. And in essence, that was what she, too, strove for but with... how could it be put? 

When just the two of them are together, doing nothing more than lazing around like any bachelor and cat would do when left to their own devices - him, lounging back in an easy chair, her nestled in the crook of his arms, she couldn't help but feel there was some element of romance. That was always how she saw it; platanic romance.

So to see him attracted to other women was somewhat of a deviation of what made their quality time together genuinely pleasurable.

... Which was why she was quite glad that, though he had overcome his _fear_ of the opposite sex, he certainly hadn't overcome his terror of commitment, which seemed to cause him drastic attraction to women that he would not have a chance to actually be with.

Thus she was quite content where she was just now, settled comfortably on his chest like a warm, fuzzy loaf of bread while he lay back on the Son's couch, one of his legs hanging over the edge. She was purring quitely, her nose just inches from his chin. His eyes were closed, but he was in no way asleep. She could tell by the pace of his heart and breath, just beneath her, each inhalation raising her an inch up, exhalation lowering her an inch or so.

One of her ears swiveled to listen to the sounds of Jondalar puttering uselessly around in the kitchen. She observed him sometimes, under the guise of household pet, amazed at his incompetence to so much as create a successful sandwich. The prince seemed to have taken up the habit of talking to her when no one else was around, which she found amusing enough to pretend to 'coincidentally' acknowledge him sometimes by squeezing her eyes shut or flicking a tail sympathetically.

Her bright eyes were intent on Lord Yamcha's face. Looking at his dark lashes, the way his scars caused out of place shadows across his face. She uncrurled his body and slowly stood up, her paws so used to finding footing on his chest that she was able to maintain her catly fluid motions as she edged closer to his face, sitting on his collar bone. Her face was now just an inch above his.

... She wondered what he would do if she kissed him right now.

He let her smooth down his hair with her tongue sometimes, though it made him giggle in an almost boyish way, saying it tickled (she loved that little laugh, and was quite pleased that no one else seemed to have heard it before.) And often at night she would butt her head against his chin to say goodnight.

Thinking back, he had never turned her down or away at anything she wanted to do.

So... so would it be okay? Just this once, to try kissing him?

She contemplated his lips; they were nicely shaped, though much larger than her own. Hers were more... catty. Enough that she was quite successful at speaking just as good as any human (a good mental shake of the fist in Jondalar's direction) but still... would it be wierd? For herself as well as him?

She brought her mouth and nose closer...

He chuckled and opened one eye, "Your whiskers tickle," he said.

She squeezed her eyes shut with undisguisable pleasure. She was actually relieved that he had inadvertantly stopped her mad idea. She didn't get an chance to reply.

"Is it okay having her close to your mouth like that?" (When he said 'having' it came out 'hafing'.)

Lord Yamcha sat up and she slid down his chest to his lap, and replied, "I have a dirty mouth as it is; if anything, she'll improve it. You could stand to give it a go sometime."

There seemed to be a baseless rivalry between Jondalar and Yamcha, which neither seemed to feel like going out of their way to hide.

The prince seated himself on the other side of the coffee table with a bowl of what could only be poorly concocted soup from a can. He looked into her eyes and she boldly looked back until he had to blink-- few were the men that could hold the stare of a cat. "Whatever," he said with a shrug (phonetically it was 'vatever'), spooning at the small chunks of condensed soup that had failed to integrate with the water during boiling.

Yamcha didn't seem up to letting the little conversation end there, "You made it home, I see. I'm impressed you were capable of driving with your _limited_ experiance with sitting behind the wheel, instead of sitting behind _the man_ sitting behind the wheel.."

"I can navigate any car on the road, thank you very much," the prince snapped. He certainly seemed in hardly a better mood than Yamcha. "And I can do it _well_." (It came out 'I can do it _vell_.')

"Sincerely?. Your old man must have had to spend thousands to afford tutors with enough patience to teach someone of your... unique caliber."

"My 'old man' is also a very rich, very powerful man, so I suggest you learn your place when dealing with those in higher levels of influence."

She took to staring at his forhead until he had to rub his hand over the spot to make sure a blemish hadn't cropped up, while Yamcha replied, "Wow, how old are you? I think _I_ stopped hiding behind my daddy when I was in diapers... No, actually I don't think I depended on his, what did you call it, 'higher level of influence' even then."

She found it prudent not to mention that he had never depended on his father because he hardly remembered what his face looked like, having no pictures of him and having not spoken to him in at least two decades.

"You're probably right," Jondalar was replying, "You wouldn't need to use such threats when you're holding a sword against a person's throats as you take all of their belongings. I've done some research on you; Yamcha, the dreaded desert bandit. Only dreaded because you were never caught." ('you vere nefer caught') "Seems much more like a glorified mugger."

Her ears perked forward to point at him with interest, now. It seems she wasn't the only one to have done some research.

"Christ, I was only sixteen and even then, at least I was able to depend entirely on myself. Have _you ever_ had to take care of yourself before? I doubt you would be able to... couldn't live without Daddy's 'level of influence'. I mean, just look at you now, can't even get a woman to marry you fairly, so you need Daddy to force a still-greiving widow with two children into 'accepting' you by threatening to kill her aging father." Oo, he was certainly on a nasty thread today. She couldn't help but be reminded of him as the dashing waif with a sword, taking the whole world on with stride from their desert hideout.

"It is _not_ like that!" This was a bit of a bellow, and now the prince was leaning forward, hands on knees, subquality soup forgotten. She moved from Yamcha's lap incase the master should need to move quickly in defense. "I _saved_ this family. My father was already planning to take Fry Pan; it was _my_ idea to try doing so peacefully and without bloodshed. They owe what peace of mind they have _got_ to me-"

"That reminds me," Yamcha quite blandly interupted, his expression nonplussed, "Gohan seemed to be quite _lacking_ in his peace of mind when you returned; what the hell did you say to him?" He leaned forward now, in full intimidation-mode, all quantity of joking aside, fully serious, "Because if you're doing _anything_ to make his life anymore unpleasant than you already are-"

"My god, man," the prince's neck seemed thicker than normal as his jaw worked at the air, "I don't know _what_ happened in that car; you could just feel this... this _something_ in the air, making my whole body go cold-"

"You were just feeling Gohan's chi." Yamcha seemed mollified that the other man was so shaken, "When people are very powerful, any shift in their chi can be felt..." Even she was noting, however, that the prince's level of fear was abnormal; likely he posessed a level of natural talent at tasting chi, which wasn't so uncommon amoung humans. It would explain his high level of success with the sword...

The prince went on shaking his head, and she realized that when he got pale like this a few freckles stood out, making him look almost foolishly young, "If it's as you say... Oh, forget it. I'm not to blame for that boy's... 'chi', or whatever evil spirit had taken over that car. I was just asking him who he must have pissed off to make his face look like he'd tangled with an angry freight train!"

This particularly pricked Yamcha, as well as herself.

They exchanged glances, the same thought running between them: There weren't many explanations available when Gohan came home from Capsule Corporations injured.

"Bastard," Yamcha said, biting the word out of the air. She closed her eyes, curling on the couch

* * *

_-though fortunately, I was able to slip past Mutter before she got a good look at my face, so hopefully I won't get in trouble. Der Saiyan's temper seems to be degenerating; he is becoming irritable. Perhaps not at me so much at the general direction events are leading. It is a feeling I'm growing accustomed to, as well. Odd to think back, but it seems I've grown used to Der Saiyan's unpredictable behavior, though the circumstance around our most recent conflict are worth noting: I declined his offer to hilf mir by killing Der Prinz. How difficult it is for him to go out of his way for other people, I wonder? The resulting anger that followed was surely to be expected but... I'm concerned that something more significant happened at the same time, that I am not aware of. _

_Though he released my arm when he could easily have crushed it, it felt as though some distance suddenly came between us. Not to say there wasn't always a rift, but it felt somehow final. I am feeling intrepidation when I think of it. _

_Der Saiyan came to a decision today, I think._

_I would like to think on it more, but am just too tired and angry (it took a long time to decide on that word; I don't like admitting when I'm angry, but I really am. I want to do things that are lacking in control. I want to scream at the wall. I'm blushing to write something so foolish but that is honestly how I feel; this is my geheimnis Tagebuch, is it not? I must be allowed to write foolish things somewhere, sometime, mustn't I?)_

_One way or another, I am hoping that Der Saiyan does not try to harm Der Prinz_... _though even now, I am wondering if I would be very upset if he did. I feel sick about that. Sick right to my stomach, but on some level I wish I hadn't stopped Der Saiyan at all._

_ On the journey home, Der Prinz wouldn't stop asking embarassing questions about meinen Vater._

_I know that I need to not be so overly sensitive about the topic, as there are many curious people out there who want and feel they have a right to know details pertaining to Vater's death but hearing them from that man made me so angry I just wanted to do something terribly rash to-_

_It is two hours after what I was previously writing. Entschuldigung, Yamcha wanted to talk to me (I think it's okay to mention his name_..._ he's not in any of Mutter's 'problem areas'.) Der Prinz must have mentioned something to him, as he came into my room seeming very irritated. "How long are you going to let that Arschloch kick you around?!"_

_I did not think it would help to mention that I hadn't been kicked at all. Instead I calmly set this Tagebuch down -- I was hoping he would not notice it -- and told him, "If your talking about my run in with (Der Saiyan), it's not a matter of my allowance; he was angry. Though I didn't see it as a reason to cause a large dispute over such little damage."_

_Yamcha is a nice person, but he does tend to get overly worked up about many things, and he seemed angrier than neccessary, almost yelling, "Mein Gott, Gohan! I would have thought now that you're stronger than him you would be able to stand up for yourself!" And then he made me pull back my hair and let him look at my face. I don't really understand why he was so worked up; we've **both** sustained far worse damage before without suffering from much affect. He kept repeating "Verdamten gewaltem Saiyanen!" and "You have to start standing up for yourself!"_

_Funny thing is, he sounded something like Der Saiyan when he said that. Why is everyone so concerned that I am not assertive enough?_

_Can't they see I prefer things as they are, rather than to break the peace by trying to change things by fighting, bringing the whole world back into a spinning mess, where everything feels as though it's happening at once? _

_... and yet I can't help but wonder if by using force, I could not alter these feelings of helplessness I have been expiriancing about Mutter and my own current situation. Der Saiyan did have a good point; if I do not want der Prinz interfering in my life, why is he still alive-_

_-Entschuldigung, but I'm setting the pen down. My hand is shaking too badly to write right now. I'm going to start out earlier than planned to go hunting._

_I need to get away from the house for a bit._

* * *

Names left little affect on him and time meshed together like a chain link fence; each passing arc in life potentially viewable but so hard to focus on one incident when all incidents occurred, just as the past ones had, and events stopped holding precedent over the long myriad of things that happened each minute, each hour, each year. 

It was no new innovation, no magical personal revelation.

He had killed millions of people. Was it strange that he had destroyed so many to the point that not even his own mind could fully encompass the accurate figure? Before the radical changes this past decade had brought on, he had been only half-living his life; he had gone through the motions of existence, breathing and eating and interacting with his environment...

Of the millions destroyed at his hands, though very few faces bothered to say in his accurate memory... there were still a few thousand incidences that stood out clearly in his mind. Watching a little boy running away before being consumed by flame. Watching a woman trip and fall in her terror and burst her own head open before anyone else was able to kill her.

At the moment, he was contemplating something that even he had, at the time, found rather disturbing:

The race was strong enough for consideration and, the Master wanting to enhance his army, instructed to have a few of the brats rounded up and removed to the ship before the business got too terribly messy. Fine enough; walking through the streets, he was already dragging along by the bony ridge of its scalp a young alien child, thankfully unconscious.

Rounding a charred corner, idly kicking up a little cloud of dust, his scouter alerted him to a few beings huddling in the corner: a female, her large, unrestrained breasts swinging wild, her ridged scalp brown with terror, in her arms holding an infant while two small children cowered behind her.

This alone would have left no imprint on his mind; the mothers always tried to get in the way, the brats always sniveled and cowered. What so surprised him was that the female, shouting in her planet's dialect, hissed at him, "You ssshall not have them!" And, grabbing a large stone of rubble from the ground, she raised it over her head and (he was actually expecting her to throw it at him or something equally comical) and brought it straight down on her own infant's head. The skull split in a muffled sound akin to crushing a light bulb in a leather sack. "I will not let you have them!" 

The children, having been clinging to her until that moment as their final source of comfort suddenly started to scream, one turned to run before she caught him by the arm and brought him down to the ground and smashed his head in as well; the final child managed to dart from arm's length and began to flee... until his back combusted into a flame that echoed through his body and out his chest.

The female looked almost grateful as he turned his hand away from the carnage of her spawn and aimed it at her; she then looked almost startled, then, in her state of hysteric madness, cracked a resigned, mildly amused grin before degrading into a pile of soot and sharp angles of bone. She would rather have killed her own children than have them taken and altered from how they were meant to be.

It was crazy, and even now to remember it made him feel the urge to hysterically chuckle. He had related the account to Bulma once, under the affects of delirium at being able to relax with her after a rousing course of love making. She didn't find it as funny as he did, so he hadn't gone into any of his own private thoughts on the matter.

... But in his darker moods, especially those aimless moments when he had been performing the tedious busy work of wiping out one world after another, he wondered if that mad female hadn't been stronger in will than his own father.

Should he, himself, have been killed? His head smashed in with a rock rather than be degraded to servant of the mad little tyrant of Freeza? He had many of his own qualms with his father but, be it selfish or not, he despised his father the most for the transgression of sacrificing his own son in the sake of appeasement.

He -- his thoughts were interrupted as a soft, uncalloused hand slid up his rub cage to rest gently against his breast. A gentle feminine sigh told him that the female occupying the bed with him was still quite asleep.

He studied her blue hair in the darkness of the bedroom, lit only by the city lights and moon outside the window, pondering if his priorities were in the correct place. 

She had been around that human again. Yamcha. Her not-quite-mate, who he had managed to eradicate from the picture not long after he entered the scenario. (When had he started to feel strongly for the female? He couldn't pin point the occasion; he could only remember her saying a week or so after he had taken up residence in her house, "You know? Me and you, we're both ass holes. There's no way around it; ass holes surrounded by people that expect us to not be ass holes. It's frustrating, isn't it?" And she laughed. Right then he found himself thinking, _I could like someone like that, maybe; not her particularly, but possibly someone like her_...)

But she had been around that human again, and she had gotten upset about him, and it was possible that she had cried a small amount about it and he wanted to get mad at her but...

Well, he couldn't say a word, because though she knew he didn't want her around that man... He knew equally well that he wasn't supposed to excessively harass the son of Kakarotto (Or at least not, he had come to the understanding, on the grounds of the Capsule Corporations, or even in the city if possible. Humans, in a rare fit of intelligence, had developed the saying "Out of sight, out of mind", which he could easily live by.)

So though he was mad, keeping silent would be the best plan. 

... He hadn't meant to hit the kid, anyway, though there was a strange sense of relief that he had restrained himself to a point, which was a concern of its own. Actually, he had been feeling quite resolved to do the opposite. He had held no other intention than trying to find a way to just... return things as they were. Whoever the unknown and weak Prince Jondalar was, he posed no threat other than to break the continuum of the relative peace that had been presiding in his own personal life. He didn't like when things changed. He despised it. And killing was the quickest, easiest way to keep it from happening.

But instead of thanking him, or being his usual resigned self and doing nothing, that boy had actually insulted him by denying his aid (a grave business to turn down an offer from a superior). It was one thing if the boy was meek and docile on his own. But to try imposing such diffidence on the Saiya-jin no Ouji! Gall!

There was a shuffling sound, below the skills of a human to hear as the door of their room slowly slid open and there stood the toddler-creature, dragging Night-Night behind him, entering the darkened room. He didn't say anything, though he watched with a deep musing as the creature sleepily, scrubbing one eye, crossed the room and scaled the bed. 

Was this heir-creature going to live up to _its_ potential? he wondered. Or would the weak, deplorable softness of the creatures around it destroy its potential and reduce it to a mess of simpering unfulfilled longings like the _other_ half-breed... 

He was remembering the female and her wobbling breasts and the moist crunching sound of stone brought against bone and wondered, and wondered and wondered. Was that the path that a parent must be willing to take to preserve the true soul of their child...? 

He would not claim to be afraid, but these musings even left _him_ feeling cold and uncomfortable and squirmy, even as the squirmy creature nestled in between him and his female; when it looked up to see his awake eyes watching, it said, "Ksh!" in greeting as it settled in, completing the general irony of the world.

* * *

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	6. VE: 5 Saying Nothing Do't

A few production notes: The second illustration of this part was done using a tablet, and the third was colored by **Pinkuh** of **Pink Fox Studios**. The manga was done with pencil this time, in case any wonder at the medium.

* * *

**The Variation Elements**

**1.5: Saying Nothing Do't**

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?  
Prithee, why so mute?  
Will, when speaking well can't win her,  
saying nothing do't?  
Prithee, why so mute?

-- Song, Sir John Suckling

* * *

"-ly will save me some time. It's quite amazing you found it... just lying under a bush?" 

He sat on the floor, back leaning against the couch, and after shifting it back and forth in his hands, set it on the floor to roll it to the man, the dual stars within orbiting one another as they traveled.

"It was Puar who found it; she has more of an eye for detail." Roguish grin, "When we were kids, she used to cuddle up to old ladies and steal their jewelry. Things that shine draw her attention. It wasn't exactly just laying there under a bush; it must have been there for a while. It was partially sunken into the dirt and covered in leaves."

He was standing. The tip of his drawn sword stopped the object's rolling motion and, separating his feet, both hands on the hilt, he made as though a golfer giving a ball a final tap to win the cup, and returned it rolling back the way it came.

"I'll... be leaving by the end of the month."

The rolling was again countered by the back of a hand which, though it still had the somewhat shorter fingers of a child, had mildly disfigured knuckles from a history of abuse. These same knuckles were prone to ache in bad weather, or under times of personal emotional stress. They ached often, now, for both reasons.

The object was flicked to commence its pacing trek..

"How long do you suppose you'll be gone?"

The sword tip again caught it with a _klink_ of metal against an unknown, glasslike material. Now it was rolled in a much shorter pace as the blade passed it back and forth like a puck in a hockey rink.

When it was finally released, a squeal of delight sounded and five chubby fingers closed around the rolling object, lifted it from the ground and drew it up to a wet, gaping mouth.

"None of the other six are anywhere near by... that must have been the closest one." A beeping was heard as radar was consulted, "The next one is at least seven provinces away. I really want to find the Four-Star, and I don't know how many I'll need to see before I come across it... But add to it at least two weeks of tracking down our winter meat... I could be gone for a month or so, maybe. Give or take a week. Oh, make sure he doesn't swallow that; I'm not worried if he'd choke so much as eventually having to give it back again once his system finds it unusable."

A surprised chuckle, "I can't believe you said that."

A shrug, "It's only natural. Once one has gutted most of their own meat since they were young, one tends to be come quite intimate and familiar with what's inside one's own body."

A small, drooling set of gums were pried open and the amber object was removed by a thumb and forefinger, "Ow. He doesn't have any teeth yet and already it hurts when he bites. You know, Bulma told me it took Trunks a long time to start growing his teeth in, too."

"Mother says the same thing about me." A twitch of a cheek in either resignation or some mild irritation, "I'm assuming it's an inherent Saiya-jin trait, then."

The pudgy infant body was lifted from the wooden floor for better inspection, "His mouth's not the only thing he got from his Saiya-jin side. His hair, his face, everything. He's the spitting image of his father."

No reply was given.

After a furtive glance that was just as quickly redirected to the fat, drooling, endearing creature in his outstretched arms, "You think about him a lot?"

Answer dull, distanced, "All the time. How can I not?"

"Yeah...," a small nod of personal, sympathetic understanding, "It's really a different world when he's not in it." Expression too stern and serious to be actually looking at the cooing infant, not bothering with subtleties, as he possessed none, "You blame yourself?"

Consideration, this time. Not without a note of bleached sadness, almost untraceable save the cement-heaviness to the words, "In a way. I do need to take responsibility for my... transgressions. And it is in many ways my fault he died." Time was taken to pick words that felt most appropriate, "But he didn't blame me for it, you know... he didn't blame any of us." Eyes were closed tightly, head tilted back so that dark hair rested on the couch cushions, "But god, if I could have given my life to keep him from going, I would have, right then, no thoughts. I wanted to die when he died. I really did. I don't think you were close enough to hear me, but after Trunks... and Vegita...," a shoulder, with the white specklings of bizarre, translucent scarring was caressed, "I just wanted Cell to end it. I think I told him to just hurry up and do it, so that I could be with him again."

"Hn. Ever mention any of this to your mother?"

A minute shake of the head, eyes wide, gazing at something distant and unattainable, "No. I haven't talked much to her about anything, really..." A frown developing in his brow, "It's strange but though we live in the same house, and eat every meal together, I don't think I've had an actual conversation with her outside of weather or immediate things in weeks. And... I can't tell her things like that. I had to be the one to tell her that her husband was dead. You should have seen her... when she opened the door and saw me standing there she looked so relieved. If I was alive, after all, of course he would be too. She even managed to get in a few words about how filthy and ragged my clothes were before I managed to get her to listen to me. She's never asked for further details." Heavier, still, "I think she likes me more when I don't say very much..."

No immediate reaction was given. Consideration was a possible cause. Digestion. The reply, calm and casual, "You still think about dying?"

A secretly bated breath, the gurgling of the young.

"It... it wouldn't really be right, you know?" A cheek was twitched in a strange, misty half-grin, "Ungrateful, is what it would be. You're concerned I might be thinking of suicide? I guess I can appreciate the concern, but he gave his _life_ so that I could keep mine. To kill myself, it would mean making his death in vain. His sacrifice would have been for nothing."

It was the other's turn to not reply.

Realizing the question hadn't been entirely answered, "Yes. I still think about dying. About as much as I think about _him_ dying. But who wouldn't, you know? I admit I'm not always as happy as I act... Everyone thinks about ending it at some point or another. But even when I'm thinking about ways to do it... Self destruction? Drowning? Wrist-slitting? Even when I'm two steps away from just deciding to do it, right then and there, I... Well, I realize that I really don't want to. I mean, Mother would be crushed, Goten would grow up not remembering me... Piccolo-san would just be disappointed... It would only cause so much more trouble that, even if I am to blame for... Well, then I at least owe it to everyone to not make it even more complicated by going off and _joining_ him. I said I was going to take responsibility for myself, and killing myself would be doing anything but."

Silence crawled through the room in pushy, rolling movements, not holding still.

Finally, a hand came to rest on a crown of untamable black locks, ruffling the hair affectionately, "You're a good kid." Was all that was said, the only amendment being, "But everyone knows the quickest way to go about it is to kick Vegita in the crotch and tell him he's an ass."

* * *

She was watching him through his reflection in the window over the sink as she tackled the weighty task of washing the dishes made by the entire party of guests she'd been growing accustomed to (it was nice having guests in the house; made it seem less lonely and it certainly was full of distractions.) 

"What are you looking at?" She asked him, realizing he, too, was looking out a window, his face nearly pressed against the glass until his wet, green eyeballs threatened to make an interesting smear on the window pane.

"It's snowing outside." He said, almost dully. "He said at dinner that it would snow tonight, and it's three hours later, and it's snowing." (His lips were held closer together, making 'would' into 'vould'.)

She didn't answer immediately, instead insuring a particularly stubborn spot of semidried tomato sauce was removed as she considered, "He's good at telling the weather. He's been doing it for years... His father taught him how."

She didn't know if the comment had been meant to prick him or not.

"I... guess I've heard of the talent before. It shouldn't be surprising someone raised in the secluded mountains would pick up on weather patterns." He seemed quite relieved about this, and she gave a little smile to herself.

"My father has his own personal meteorologist," he said, which made her frown again, "And his own network of satellites." He pronounced 'network' as 'netvork'.

Not finding this particularly interesting, she went on scrubbing, choosing for once to keep her comments to herself.

"He has a lot of other things, too, and I'm sure-"

"I'm sure he does," she said mutely. 

The man seemed to enjoy hiding his suggestions of ignorance by offering what he had in his kingdom to make up for it. For the past week now it had almost become a routine with him. A few days back, when the telephone had gone dead, he had been surprised that she asked her son to fix it instead of one of the two full grown men. When the boy, after taking the entire thing apart and in a matter of minutes, had solved the problem, he was quite quick to insure her that _his father_ had some of the best technicians in thirty counties at call twenty-four-hour-a-day.

Yesterday, he had seen Yamcha flying (with his chi, not in a jet car) and, after being mocked quite harshly by the other man for his own inability, he gave in to elaborately depicting of the many forms of air-transportation available in Blue Monarch...

Actually, she felt sort of sorry for him in that, for in return Yamcha told _him_ quite a few things he could _do_ with his modes of transportation with enough words that she turned a few shades greener and had ended up bawling them both out so loudly that Gohan had come down the hall to see what the commotion was. (She had quickly sent them both out of the house to argue and for good measure bawled out her son, too, for abandoning his studies and sending him, quite startled, right back down the hall to his room with arm extended, finger pointed, expression grim.)

... to think back on it now, she was quite embarrassed, really. Though Yamcha was a veteran of her tongue-lashings, she'd never really yelled at Jondalar before... And in truth, she had been intentionally picking at the misbegotten prince more out of spite for his queer knack of finding his way into her thoughts as something comparable to her former husband. It wasn't fair to compare them! It wasn't fair as her late husband wasn't even there to defend his reputation, having died to keep loved ones such as _herself_ still alive to enjoy the next breath of air and next sunrise _for_ him, as he never would again-

She found herself hauling over her shoulder, "You could at least bring me over the last dishes from the table!"

She knew, full well, that every single one of the males she'd fed that evening, and every evening before, had attempted doing the dishes, at which she had chased them way immediately.

She was in a bit of a rage. She knew it, too, as she sometimes did, but she also wasn't in any fit state to control it, really and... well, it also felt sort of good. She hadn't had the _excuse_ to scream at anyone in... well, since Goku had been around to bear the brunt of it with _and there she was going again thinking back on him every time Jondalar was involved, it wasn't fair, it wasn't!_

She threw away the plate she had been cleaning (or rather, the two halves) and turned to lean her rear against the counter as she sucked at the red beads oozing from her finger, giving the floor boards the glaring of their life though the emotions she was spiraling through was impairing her vision enough that she knew her eyes were brimming and-

She stared, absolutely speechless, as Jondalar finished rubbing the dirty spoon on his silk shirt, leaving a spot. He smiled helplessly, "I've been an absolute pain, haven't I? Constantly talking about my father?" He asked, shifting the spoon from one hand to another, looking down at it, turning it over, considering it, "You know, I'm not even proud of him really, so... I apologize... I guess it's," he was grinning in a more emotional way, as though on the verge of either laughing or possibly crying, "I guess it's my childish way of trying to impress you."

She continued to keep her expression one of distaste; she had already yelled at him... -- well, if he was going to end up marrying her, he would have to be able to withstand a certain amount of her temper; perhaps it was a good thing to introduce him to it now.

"So...," he went on, with more conviction, "So, instead of pressing onward with the Emperor's many assets, I shall now show you a talent of my very own, of which I can proudly say I taught myself."

She continued to scrutinize him as he breathed into the spoon's curve as though trying to polish it (or check his breath, she supposed...)

"And what exactly are you doing?" She demanded irritably.

He raised the spoon to his face...

And hung it on his nose.

Then put his hands on his hips. "My father vasn't terribly impressed by it when I did it as a kid, but... I still find it terribly clever, no?"

Slowly her eyebrows raised as she realized just what he... That he was... At a time like this-!

She didn't even realized the footsteps were approaching until Yamcha had strolled right across the room, his eyes facing forward, Puar draped over one shoulder. He didn't pause as he passed, and as he exited the room through another door only said, "Got something on your face, there, Jon."

"Thanks." The prince said, not taking his eyes off hers.

And then, once the comprehension had finally reached her brain, she laughed. It started small, a series of exploding breaths. Then, a chuckle. But as he continued to stand there, proudly, hands on hips, spoon on nose... she gave a real laugh. A quiet, lurching laugh, the likes of which reached into her gut and made it hurt like something was being tugged at each time she exhaled. She wrapped her arms under her ribs and leaned over until she realized her bottom was on the ground and the tears that had been in her eyes were now on her cheeks (more toward her chin...) and... She hadn't laughed with such strain since she'd had a whole, stable, loving family. But by god, it really wasn't that funny, but... it was something so small that...

When she finally ran a sleeved arm over her eyes, she realized the spoon had long since fallen from the prince's nose, as he was now seated, his chair turned to face her, chin in his hands, his lips drawn back in a smile that... Reminded her of Goku. Shameless and sincere and amused. It was different from his other calculated smiles; it wasn't the smile of a prince. It was the smile of some young man, watching some young woman laugh.

"I think this is the happiest I've ever seen you," he said.

She couldn't wipe the last of the smile from her face, though she stood very quickly, straightening her skirt and said only, "I could say the same for you." Turning back to the dishes before he tried telling her how beautiful she was when she laughed, or how radiant her smile was...

... why had she been mad again, now...?

She felt so warm inside right then that it was as though she were leaning into Goku's warm chest, with both of his strong arms around her.

She wondered... Would he condone her remarrying? Would he want her to drive herself to depression for the rest of her life? It didn't sound like him so... Would... would he want her to...

"It's getting dark out, and the snow is only going to get thicker." Was all she said, and the conflict in her mind didn't reach her voice which had mellowed from enraged widow to poised matriarch, "You should get to your house. I'll see that Gohan shovels a walk in the morning."

"Ah... all right...," he said, sounding confused and possibly hurt by the abrupt dismissal.

Well... well, he would just have to deal with it right now, because she had much thinking to do.

* * *

Damn. God damn. Godammit. 

She glowered at the computer, wishing she could just hit it, as she often did with the organic beings around her that drove her to madness with their inconsiderateness, with their constant talking, with their many, many priorities, none evolving around her, none wanting to help her, dammit, dammit, _dammit_...

The screen had frozen. She would have to turn it off manually which entailed, since it was large enough to fill a room, walking out the door,down the hall to the power box and flipping the switch to turn off the electricity in the whole _room_. All the effort of it would, instead of being _productive_, cause her to lose an estimated seven hours of hard work.

She... hated today.

She hated yesterday.

She hated every day.

"Ksh!"

She whirled around, "Get out of here!"

The small being she had unleashed her wrath at cringed away, clutching his Night-Night to himself, and cowered against the door way. She knew she should feel bad about this at least; her son, after all, hadn't caused her computer to freeze itself, nor was it her son's fault she had been too engrossed in her project to remember saving changes until only now, when it was too late.

She was not one to find fault with herself easily, though, and unwilling at the moment to take responsibility for yet another mistake she had to answer for, she grew angry at the _cause_ of her new vexation, "Go find your father!" She said, turning back to her screen, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard in hopeless hope that the problem would only be temporary.

After a few moments of trying desperate escape commands, she turned back around to perhaps apologize, expecting to see her son's expression drawn in a childlike display of utter distress, with tears and blubbering... but he wasn't behind her. He had left without a sound.

Well... good.

She pondered. She stewed. She tried to do anything that might revive her program. She stalled, not wanting to have to actually be the one to shut it down and lose everything. She hated. She...

She took a deep breath and slowly pushed her chair away, using a thumb to push some hair back out of her eyes.

She hadn't liked the project anyway.

Leaving the room, she didn't bother to turn the power off in the room; let it sit there in eternal stillness and rot.

She paced the halls, traveling down the elevator, thumb and forefinger to her chin, wondering if perhaps this wasn't a divine sign from the gods (a brief flash of the chubby face of the Dende she had first met on Namek) that she give up her current endeavors and try something new. Her company hadn't released any truly revolutionary inventions in quite some time, and the data she had just lost had only been for a mildly altered newer version of a sports car that could sustain depths of ten miles underwater.

The last project she had actually taken pride in was working on the fully mechanical Jinzouningen Juuroku-gou, which had been somewhat like creating life (causing a conscience-bothering respect for the genius of Dr. Gero). But she hadn't actually _created_ him so much as worked on what was already created. Using someone else's base.

Dammit, how was it that an evil maniac was more genius than her!? Juuroku-gou hadn't been the most complex thing he had ever created, either. Like the being that had _destroyed_ Juuroku-gou. Cell.

How far away was the science of Capsule Corporations from creating actual, organic _life forms_, with their own, prefabricated blood and scientifically knitted genes and phenomenal, engorged chi? She, despite all her pride, all her skill, all her innovations, knew deep down that it would take her a few life times to come across understanding of such exact science. She wondered if even her father would be able to... Perhaps he would, had he a care to, but she would certainly never ask him. He was a genius of the likes the world had and never would see again, but in his own, good natured way kept his secrets hidden from all minds but his own.

She chewed out a cleaning robot as it dusted the floor until its emotion-chips overloaded and it broke down into a simulated expression of sobbing.

Her father had programmed it to do that. Mad man.

What had she actually created that was any use?! Not the unity of the entire corporation, not with the help of her father, but what had she _personally_, without aid contributed to this world?

The Dragon Radar. Which she had built when she was sixteen. It had been over two decades since then, and she had nothing more to show for it. Damn!

As she stormed, she wondered. What competition was there? Aside from her father, were there others out there that would eventually come up with more, better, greater appreciated submissions of science?

Gero was dead now, thank god, his lab was destroyed, thank god (she wouldn't trust it to remain standing, in case she give into the madness and explore it and adopt some of his own projects.)

Gohan. He would be scientifically formidable in the future.

For now, he wasn't putting his mind to invention. He wasn't an output. Just an input.

... But he already had every blueprint and manual her company had created memorized with that nasty little photographic memory his mother had molded into him, as well as all of the material that had _not_ been meant for eyes other than her and her father's. Yes, the family easily and willingly trusted him with such knowledge, but how old would he be before he took that "Great Scholar" ambition and plunged headfirst into the science world?

In that little head of his, he already had the plans of the entire Capsule Corporation's infrastructure, their manufacturing needs, their exact sciences, as well as quite a few other competing companies' information, which he acquired during his studies of modern economics. He could build a company right then and there, and it would be an instant competitor with the elite of the business world.

She recalled watching him once on the computer, while he was typing a practice thesis. His hands moved almost too fast for her to see and the computer wasn't able to scroll out the words he was typing rapidly enough. Every few seconds his speed-hazed digits must have typed the Save key command, because he wasn't particularly distressed when the computer suffered the exact problem her own had that day: it froze.

He had looked up at it for a second (these fighters, with their impossible, inhuman speed often failed to understand the physical limitations of the things around them.) Then, after the error dawned on him, he simply splayed his fingers over the keyboard, there was a spark, and instantly the computer shut itself off, then started turning back on again.

When she had asked what he had done, he simply answered, "I just short circuited it; I used my chi to cause friction, and the friction caused static. The static made a small power surge in the computer making it flicker off, then back on again. Sort of like how house lights flicker when there's a lightning storm outside." And he went right back to work, a bit colored in the cheeks at the unwanted extra attention.

She had simply thought it clever at the time, maybe perhaps a little jealous that she couldn't do something like that, but now...

Now, she quite suddenly realized something like that could be marketable. What, she wondered, were other uses that chi could be put to...?

Her bitter mood quite instantly forgotten, she headed for storage, her powerful mind going back six years to when she had packed away the pieces of the scouter she had plucked from the corpse of Goku's older brother.

* * *

It seemed that recently, with the immediate lack of threat and thereof means of permanent separation by death, his mother seemed much less distressed about him leaving the house on extended periods so long as _the majority_ of his time was spent safe within the walls of her house with his other, much less dangerous hobbies. 

Today, for instance, he had vanished early in the morning, vaulting out his window the instant he had felt that familiar old chi appear nearby like the distant sound of an old guitar string. He _had_ scrawled a note (he was responsible, and would have liked to tell her personally that he was leaving, but didn't want to tempt fate too much by offering her the opportunity to tell him he couldn't go.)

It was evening, now; the sun was beginning to settle just at the topmost leaves of the trees like a gleaming orange egg in a giant nest, and she wasn't even watching out the window in anticipation. The past four or so times this had happened, he had merely to walk into the house and politely announced his return, to which she would only welcome him and tell him to wash his hands.

She never asked where he had gone, or what he had done. Subsequently, he had taken the hint to not offer such information. She knew he was with Piccolo-san; (he wasn't covert with the fact) the company he kept was plainly stated so in his notes. But aside from that, perhaps to show her disapproval, perhaps because she feared the answer, perhaps even because she didn't really care, but she never asked. He could just as well have gone outside to make sure the sky was still way up there and the ground was still below it and had returned with little more to share than such facts.

Despite, not one prone to terribly lasting fits of depression outside of typical preadolescence, he was actually feeling remarkably happy on the occasion; he loved the company he was in. He couldn't help it. It wasn't in-depth conversation, it wasn't even really interacting it was just... Existing and talking about technicalities of chi manipulation, comparing skills both on and off the battle field.

(At his request, his Namekian mentor had tested the limits of his ability to stretch his limbs -- his arms alone could almost get up to a mile by his estimation! It was amazing what sort of physical manipulation the man was capable of, both with his own matter and the very matter around him. Just that day he had, by merely extending a four-fingered hand, created a new gi that fit his little body perfectly, fashioned exactly as he had requested, one with longer sleeves to suit the winter.)

He and the familiar presence of his mentor glided down from the steel gray sky.

He turned to call back over his shoulder, through the increasing wind, "You'll be heading south soon, won't you." He couldn't really explain it, but it wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer.

The Namekian, his ancestors having adapted to a planet with a constant exposure to a series of suns, had developed a very strong appreciation of warm weather. Though he was born into (and thus accustomed to) a planet that not only existed in the reach of a _single _sun, but also leaned _farther_ away from it annually on a tilted axis, and though he had phenomenal chi to sustain him and impressive physical strength in which to _tolerate_ even subzero temperatures... Piccolo hated the winter. The whole winter season.

"I will." Came the confirmation. Earlier that week, when he had gone to visit, the waterfall his mentor was fond of had already begun to develop ice along the edges, and the banks of the river had frozen solid beneath the skin of snow that was beginning to develop on the land. That was the annual signal taken to vacate the area until it thawed.

The boy grinned as he rotated to face the other (flying was a much easier way of holding a conversation; with no ground to restrain your movements, you could be talking to someone and realize you've been orbiting one another likes moons around a planet.) "I might be leaving soon, too." He said, "I'm going to find Father's four-star-ball... And get the winter hunting done. Maybe... since I'll be looking over the planet for the Dragon Balls... I'll possibly run into you." 

He made a point to not sound too presumptuous about his welcome. He knew his mentor would love a visit, but just so, he would never admit to it. Wording had to be put carefully when broaching the subject to avoid prompting the man to force out a tirade of verbal (and, if pushed enough, physical) beratings about how much he preferred the company of himself than any brat and so on, and so forth. (He could _often_ get to sound like Vegita-san, though the rudimentary understanding redeemed him. The boy, after all, _knew_ his Namekian elder liked him, whereas the the situation with the Saiya-jin prince varied by his current mood which, unfortunately, had been quite demanding of late.)

They were spiraling closer to the ground, now, until the eventuality of the ground rising toward them met their feet.

"Hn." Came the tall man's reply (it was what the boy classified as the equivalent of Vegita-san's "Ksh." A somewhat mix of acknowledgment, dismissal and consideration all in one.) It was nice that he went on to say more, though; it was very difficult at times getting actual words out of his mentor. "I don't imagine you would want to do traveling in the garb your mother dresses you in."

He splayed his long green fingers over the boy's head and bared his fangs for a split second (it was a look that could turn hair gray, but the boy only stood still in quiet, curious expectation.) It felt like nothing more than a mere tug at his gi, and a small flash of light that felt quite different than what he would have classified as chi (Namekians and their sorcery...) The frayed edges and ribboning shreds of his clothes -- damaged in fashions that could have been caused by numerous possible activities -- were now repaired as though brand new.

It was times like these that the boy almost wanted to throw his arms around his mentor like a small child and howl "Thank you!"; he didn't know why such inclinations still came to him, as he had _never_ done such a thing (and gotten away with it unscathed, at least.) But... despite all the gruffness, all the lectures and rough angles... He had still given the boy a new gi, with no other reason than that he had wanted to. 

The man went on as, his work done, he folded his arms over his chest, conjuring up for himself his cowl and turban to ward off the invading cold, "If you do end up occasioning to locate me during your travels, I might supply you with another... if you survive the beating I give you for it."

Gohan only grinned broadly (it felt strange and relieving; he hadn't smiled much recently.) He knew, after so much time passing, to interpret the message as, "If you come visit me, and I'll give you gifts so long as we get to spar a little." If anything, it was his Namekian friend's way of trying to _entice_ him to visit. To lure him.

He had learned at a very young age how to translate the messages given by his peculiar friend, being able to look through the surface-nastiness to catch the subtle allowances beneath. During the year they had trained together, he'd become used to gleaning"Good night" from "Enjoy sleeping while you can. I'll likely end up killing you tomorrow." With such devotion to the Namekian, he could only on a critical level acknowledge to himself that a normal healthy human would not have grown accustomed to threats of extreme violence and pain as a means of affection. Cest la vie...

Of course, despite the quasi-harmlessness, there still _would_ be that requirement to spar... It was the toll paid for the older man's company. It would, very likely, only end once the two of them were too exhausted to continue (or, rather, the Namek was too exhausted to continue. If it was annoying to the mentor that the boy was so much stronger than himself, it was possibly more so for Gohan, who had never _wanted_ to raise to the tier of power he had attained, had been the last to realize he had attained it, and had yet to verbally acknowledge the fact that he had.)

The boy didn't bother saying good bye; it always ended up making him feel awkward as his mentor wasn't fond of replying to it with anything other than some derisive sound before jettisoning his chi and vanishing over the trees.

As he turned to go inside, he enjoyed the security of being able to turn his back on the high level of chi behind him and trust that he wouldn't be attacked or punished for it... Though that the thought had even entered his head with someone as trustworthy as Piccolo only made him more aware of how much Vegita's steel hand of influence was making him just that much more tense and nervous despite the very large _lack_ of possible threats...

As he walked down the hall of his house, through the living room, he didn't pause to listen as Yamcha berated and mocked Jondalar for the surprise he had apparently felt about Gohan's ability to fly. Hn... he really had just taken off and returned without consideration that the prince might have been watching that morning; there were windows all over the house... It was almost relieving in a way; one less dirty little secret he would have to try keeping in relation to his many inhuman abnormalities.

Despite the rolling turmoil of nervous energy that was collecting in his stomach, so much that it made his whole body ache and past injuries weigh down his limbs, he managed to very quietly close his door, and just as quietly cross the room and sit down at his desk.

As he commenced to get out all the homework he would have been required to do throughout the course of the next month or so (he wanted to get it done before he left), he pondered on this increasing state of hypertension he'd been experiencing. It had been just as bad waiting for the _Cell Games_ to begin... or waiting for the Jinzouningen to appear... or waiting for Father to return home from Namek... or during the whole escapade _on_ Namek... or the year previous that, awaiting the Saiya-jin.... 

In retrospect, he really hadn't _been _relaxed in more years than he could remember

For an eleven year old, that was a considerable feat.

Deciding to put such thoughts down before they started burning their own path out of his head, he decided to pull an all-nighter on homework and retrieved the _Geheimnis Tagebuch_ instead.

* * *

"Father, I'm _here_, putting in an honest effort to-" 

"I don't know where I went wrong. You're supposed to be my heir and yet you still don't have the balls that I have in one of my fingers-"

"I don't want to know about the balls you have in your fingers-"

"Gutless worm-"

"Father, I'm not going to demand that she and her entire family just pack up and leave-"

"I don't suppose you ever _will_ make demands; you're lucky that woman already has a few whelps to build from, as it's not likely _you_-"

"Oh for the love of - Father, I'm _not_ _sterile_."

"Hrm. I think your girlfriend would have something to say about-"

"Oh, kami, Genevah's not _there_, is-"

"She seems to feel you've had quite a bit of failing under the sheets-"

"Oh, dammit, Father, don't listen to anything that monster has to say; lies, poison to the ears-"

"Nice to know you still have your princely charm when talking about the ladies, _Yondalar_-"

"Listen to me, old man, that so-called _Lady_-"

"Old man? Ho ho, so there _is_ a tiny bit of gumption in you; it's that little bit of backbone that makes me not disown you and simply-"

"Father! I don't care, for once in my life I wish you would just-"

"Listen, son, I'm a very busy man and don't have time to have these patriarchal squabbles with you -"

"Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

"- so I'll make myself clear. If you insist on this long, drawn-out wooing of the woman-"

"Just answer me, is Genevah there?"

"- then I want her and her own to at least dwell within the walls of my castle for at least a week or so; get to know the in-laws and such-"

"Is that devil there? I'll strangle-"

"- so, until I hear from you, telling me when I can expect my son and my guests to visit an aging old men, so I can prepare the guest rooms-"

"Just don't listen to a single word that maniacle-"

"- good bye, son."

_Click_.

"Father? Dammit, _Father_!"

"Meow."

"Problems with the influential family, Jon? Maybe you should head home and straighten in out."

"Thank you, _no_." Jondalar snapped, still glowering at the phone.

* * *

(FFN readers will not be able to view this scene, as it is in manga format. Consult my current website.)

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	7. VE: 6 Mortar That Binds the Savage

The Variation Elements 

As always, I would recommend this series be read from my site, where the illustrations are visible. A link will be provided at the end of the chapter to return you to FFN and your regularly scheduled reading environment ^_~.

* * *

**The Variation Elements**

**1.6: Mortar That Binds the Savage**

"Lies are the mortar that binds the savage individual man into the social masonry."  
--H. G. Wells

* * *

As he opened the manila envelope, he realized that his fingernails were getting uneven; he'd actually become too embarrassed to get another manicure. It seemed that with the boy gone (though no one had told him _where_ he'd gone to; presumably hunting?) the bandit was going out of his way to make up for the loss in hostility. 

He slid from the envelope a folder containing photographs and photocopies of documents. Spreading them out before him on his bed (there weren't very many) he stepped back to gape in awe.

For the few miniscule papers before him represented Son Goku's entire existence in this world.

A single line in different documents; purchasing of a tailored gi... entry and placement (and lastly victory) in the past few Tenkaichi Boudokais... He flipped through the elaboration in these, scowling like he tasted bad milk ("... powers never seen before...") He didn't want to hear praise for the dead man. It seemed the man had never used a credit card, had never written a check (he couldn't even _find a bank account_ under his name.) Some newspaper clippings that didn't include the man's name, per say, but included enough details to connect him with the defeat of the Demon King Piccolo...

He went ahead and just crumpled up the cover sheet, which would have documented the surface findings:

**Name**: Son Goku  
**Hair/Eye**: Black/Black  
**Height**: Unknown (estimated: 6ft)  
**Weight**: Unknown (estimated: 230lbs)  
**Nationality**: Unknown (adopted into Fry Pan Mountain kingdom)  
**Age**: Unknown  
**Date of birth**: Unknown  
**Date of death**: Unknown

"Unknown, unknown... come _on_, I don't want esti_mations_...," below the written text was a rather pathetic family tree that pretty much _started_ with Son Goku, noting his wife and two sons, with a brief side note that he had at one point _claimed_ to have been raised by the hermit/martial arts master Son Gohan.

Of the papers beneath, there indeed _was_ no certificate of birth. Or death for that matter. (The private investigator his father had hired seemed skeptical the man had indeed died at all, considering his reputation.). Then... there was documentation of marriage... This, he set aside without reading... There _was_ a much older paper, signed by Son Gohan himself putting his extensive property into the possession of one Son Goku in the case of death-- though, it was reflected, the man had no personal identification to prove that he even _was_ Son Goku . It was fortunate no one had challenged his ownership or he could very easily have _lost_ his home... the Son family even now was under the same threat, really.

He paused with curiosity when he came across hospital records. Some five years ago the man had been brought to the emergency room, so horribly mangled he'd been put in traction for what the doctors thought might be a year; from the description of his condition, more bones were broken than the ones that _weren't_. He had _walked out a month or so later without a limp_. (He would have considered it impossible if he didn't remember the bruise on Son Gohan's face a few weeks back; it had _looked_ like it would take at least a few days to clear up, yet it was entirely unnoticeable by the next _morning_. The bandit had made an inappropriate comment about looking at children's face's too much when he'd tried for a closer inspection.)

Flipping through the report... he found that the boy had been checked into the hospital at the same time as his father. Both of them... concussion, multiple fractures and lacerations, internal bleedage, third degree burns... the boy had also walked out far too early, hardly more than a week, good as new. (_And_, it seemed, Tenkaichi finalist Kuririn had been joining them.)

There was no noted _cause_ of injury (the papers, it seemed, had been filled out by Bulma Briefs, who must have paid quite a bit of money to keep the hospital staff from asking too many questions. The story certainly had been kept quiet... The press would have loved the chance to run a scoop on two Tenkaichi competitors suddenly sustaining massive damage.)

As he read it, he was shivering.

He had been in a few battle of his own, mostly defending his honor or that of his empire from behind the hilt of his scimitar. He'd proven himself competent in fierce dueling competitions. He had a few good scars to show for it, too... (He couldn't fight it; memories of Genevah, running fingers over his scars, amused when he told her he couldn't feel it... two warm lips pressed against them, just to make sure...)

But...

Shattered bones... The doctor who initially wrote the report didn't seem positive Son Goku would ever be able to walk correctly again, if at all; from the knees down his legs had been little more than _mush_. His body had been so horribly burned there wasn't even enough healthy patches of skin to try grafting onto the more endangered areas. Artificial skin had been required...

It hurt more, though, to read the last page, which documented visitations.

Chichi had spent nearly every day and many nights at his bedside.

He put the rest of the report away and rifled through the sparse photographs that had been collected. Very few had been obtained; it seemed that most individuals that had any pictures of the man and his family had been less than helpful with supplying any aid in the search for better understanding of the deceased fellow. Looking back, he found that their marriage licence was probably the only photo ID the man had ever obtained, and only then because the king of Fry Pan Mountain had waived all requirements of proof of identification. Paper clipped to the document was, first, a picture of the man's face. Wide-eyed and round; he looked far too young (smug little bastard)... beneath was Chichi's photo, looking just as young...

He leaned back, pondering; when he'd arrived here a few months ago, he'd thought she looked exactly the same. It wasn't true, though. In the passing of the decade or so since she'd been married, her delicate bone structure had come out more; cheekbones and jaw line, and -- if you dared to look -- the enticing concavity of her collar bone.

And how different of a temperament than he had ever assumed! Despite the blatant and showy (lack-therof) clothing she wore as a child, he'd always assumed she was shy, rather bashful. She often ran when she saw strangers coming, and rarely spoke to visitors to the Fry Pan Kingdom unless her father prompted her to (which wasn't often, as he rarely let outsiders past the city walls without threatening to render their meat from bone and devour them.)

But though she _was_ perhaps shy in her own way, now that he was blessed with the opportunity to get to know her, he found she was certainly less poised than he'd initially thought; she yelled often and indiscriminately at anyone that irked her regardless of their position or standing. She was known to give in to fits of anger, followed by days of isolation, where she spoke very little and was very clipt and to the point when she did, not necessarily impolite but not warm either. On the off hand, though, she was much more responsible and dependable than he would ever have thought possible for a princess (or any woman for that matter), singularly tending to guests and family without exception no matter what tumultuous mental state she was in.

He found he was smiling down at the picture of the young bride-to-be. For whatever else could be said, she was certainly more colorful and outgoing than Genevah ever bothered to be-

The ring of his phone made him jump. He almost answered it, but checked his caller ID first. And grimaced. The name that appeared was the exact same as the past _thirty_ calls. '_BLU MNRCH EMPR_'. His father. Again. His hand quickly moved away from the receiver.

It was times like these he wished he'd made friends with... someone. Anyone. Anytime in his life, just to be able to expect a phone call he could _anticipate_ instead of dread.

"... hate him," he murmured, going to the window, opening it to the frigid wind (the snow had finally slacked off, at least for the day) and took a deep, lung-stinging breath. "_I hate you, old man!_"

A moment later, a dark head popped out of the training room (Son Gohan had gotten the capsule from the Brief's personally) and Chichi called, "Is everything okay?"

He smiled widely, showing a row of perfect teeth, "Fine!" (It was a fine day for a bold-faced lie.) Then, because he was desperate for company, "It would be better, though, if you would join me for coffee!"

Her eyebrows raised and, looking back into the training room for a moment, murmured a few words he couldn't hear. She then looked back up at him and said, "Why don't you come into the house and we can round it out with cake?" The nyoi bo, still poised in her hands, returned to it's smallest length from some unknown signal and she handed it to someone he couldn't see inside. She hurried through the snow to her main house without a jacket. 

From within the training room, Yamcha stepped into the doorway for a moment, looking particularly sour at the interruption.

That suited _him _just fine, and he made a point to show it by smiling broadly and waving a good afternoon, pretending not to notice when the other man returned the wave with a middle finger.

* * *

Flip of a glossy album page; "This is when Goku-san placed second at the twenty-first Tenkaichi Budoukai. I got the picture from Bulma... She and Kuririn were pretty much the only people who took pictures." Flip, "Oh! These are so out of order -- see, this is when Goku and I first met; I can't believe I used to wear that out of the house. Those are the ruins of the castle in the background." Sighing, "Most of the pictures of me when I was younger were destroyed along with the castle... my baby pictures, too. And the pictures of my mother." 

"I'm sorry for the loss... I think there might be a few pictures of your mother in the Blue Monarch archives if you would like me to check. Our two kingdoms were actually quite close for a while." He was sitting beside her on the couch, photo albums piled beside her, one stretched open across their laps. She was aware of his warm thigh against hers.

Hoping the portions of her hair that hung at the sides of her face helped cover the darkening pigment of her cheeks, "That would be... very nice. Thank you." 

She flipped through here and there, assured that all the pictures taken those precious days before the Cell Games (during which time her husband and son had refused to even leave their transformed states even for the sake a few _normal_ photographs) were not showing, she was startled when a flash of his red hair was lowered for a closer inspect of a more recent picture, "Is _that_ what Son Goku ended up looking like? He must at least be a foot taller than he was at the Tenkaichi..."

She smiled forlornly, "Yes, he just kept growing all through his twenties." Then, realizing that might be a Saiya-jin trait, quickly said, "Though I'm sure it was just because he continued training." 

He didn't answer, turning a few pages back... then, from some thought or another, plucked up one of the previous ones they had been paging through, opening it, looking at some pictures of him when he was much younger (she assumed for comparison), then sending her entire system to a rather icy stop he said, somewhat mutely, "He had a tail when he was younger, didn't he."

Photos didn't lie, and she couldn't come up with a good excuse so she only said, "Yes. He did."

"... I see." He fidgeted, looked up at a picture on the wall of the family when they had first been budding (little Gohan had only been three when the picture was taken.) "And.. your son also?"

She very-nearly swore, "Yes."

Both were quiet for a moment, possibly both considering the Blue Monarch's rather strict ban on inhuman creatures.

A prattling sound at their feet as her youngest was discovered gumming the lip of the coffee table before disengaging and, dramatically puckering his lips howled, "Wooooh!"

The prince leaned over and in a clumsy manner similar to when he patted Puar, fluffed the infant's head, smiled lopsidedly, "And what are _you_ up to, _kleine_?" The reply was a wet, squishing noise as the creature worked its gums together.

And he turned back to her and said, "I'm told that when I was a kid, I was completely bald for _two years_. My father-"

She watched his mouth as he talked, hearing little, as his accent deepened with memories of his home. He wasn't pressing the matter about the tails at all. Whether he was dismissing the topic, or preferring to pretend the whole issue hadn't been mentioned (as _she_ was personally wont to do) didn't matter. She appreciated it either way.

Sweating like a teenager whenever his eyes caught hers, she just sat and listened as his dialogue turned around once again to his father, which suddenly inspired him to say, "Arrgh, but that man has been such a hassle lately!"

"Is he still demanding an audience?" She tickled her son with a stockinged toe, and he giggled before quickly fleeing, sounding like a whole heard of dinosaurs as he shuffled around the couch and out of sight.

"Yes, he's been calling daily now! I tried getting him to agree to_ just_ meeting you and Goten for now, but now he feels like he's being _neglected_. He wants your entire family to attend, and if your eldest _doesn't_ he'll take it as a grave insult. He's such a monger for explicit detail, and now that Genevah is there I'll be getting no rest from him until..." His mouth closed slowly as his eyes widened to expose the entire ring of his green iris, bordering his swelling pupils.

She had caught it also, "Genevah?"

"A pathetic, one-sided relationship for my part. I haven't really..." he gestured to words that he could only mouth. 

Unable to help it, she sympathized fully, "You loved her." 

He looked at her as though she had told him something horrible, then sank face into hands, "... God, it _was_ love, I think. Mad as it was, it really must have been."

"What's so mad about it?" Oddly, she was finding herself a little relieved. It was embarrassing talking about her own past relationship so much, and she wanted him to share in the sufferable position.

"Oh, the number of complications! Because of Genevah, my father now thinks I'm... incapable... of continuing the family name and bearing up an heir..." He was turning red, "Um... so if he says anything over the dinner about how... ah, lucky you are to have children, please ignore the many comments I'm sure he will make about my inability to."

"Were you and... Genevah... _trying_?" Blush, "I mean, had... er, the two of you...?"

"Hah, um, in a manner of speaking. We were... quite... intimate, I could say, but..." He laughed weakly, "It was such a strange situation-"

"Maybe I was being a little forward-"

"No, no _really_, I appreciate that you're taking curiosity in me!"

Her eyebrows raised as he looked about to clamp a hand over his mouth. She had to wonder... if perhaps she had been too cold with this man so far. He _was_ a guest...

And yet...

A guest was all he could be to her. It was all her heart would allow her because, no matter what she felt towards him... it just couldn't be as strongly as she had felt for Goku.

Concerned, she hoped he would be able to accept that.

Standing up a little shakily, she began collected up cups and saucers they had been sipping coffee from, "I have to get back to training." Pause, "... don't you feel you'll need to train at all?" There was a hint of warning, she was _not_ going to be a pushover.

He smiled, directing his expression across the room at the fireplace, "I do. Every morning and every night in my bedroom, m' lady. Without fail."

She felt actually rather flattered... and then a little concerned. And then just nervous. And she quickly hurried back outside to rejoin Yamcha, who was waiting inside with sword already drawn.

* * *

___-aber ich hatte keine Geld. I'll need to find a few odd jobs so I can make some extra money. I want to buy Mutter a souvenir while I'm out though I need to think about what to get her._

_It's taken me a week, but I've now completed the tedious task of hunting; once I've cleaned and skinned the most recent collection I doubt I'll be able to fit a single trout more into the capsule freezer. I would have gotten done much sooner, but since having Puar around I've been reminded how much a normal looking animal has the potential to be entirely sentient, so I exhasted hours trying to interview my potential prey to be sure they could in no way grasp that I was trying to communicate with them._

_This way I've managed to avoid breaking up quite a few family groups that would have mourned their loss as much as I mourn Vater's. (So they told me.)_

_I can really see why the other hunters (who I must regretfully but truthfully admit are souly of the human variety) are having such a difficult time this winter bagging anything; the regularly sought game has gone from primally clever to down-right ingenius in their hiding. I swear, more animals turn sentient every day. Or maybe they're all just migrating to the Paouzu Mountains. Growing restlessness between animals and humans (which I've traced back to the Blue Monarch, which does not improve my opinion of them at all) is driving them to the few neutral areas left on the planet which means Paouzu and a few select nature reserves._

_I don't blame them! It must be fun returning to nature. I wish I could._

_But I have too much to do! (I was getting nostalgic, which I do not have time for, as pleasant as it is to reflect on my days of being a wild child in Meinen Lehrer's secluded glade.)_

_Speaking of which, once I find Vater's dragon ball I'll be able to visit him again, maybe for a week or two! It's been years since I got to stay with him over the night and I'm really looking forward to-_

* * *

"Look at that." 

She looked, resting her chin in her palm. 

The two women watched, silent, smiling in maternal fashion, as a small creature, blue eyes flashing, cheered, "No, no, this way!" A second creature, even smaller, braced up on all four limbs, crawled after him, mouth wide and grinning, showing two sets of pink gums, "Follow me! Follow me!" The smaller creature gave halting chase on hands and knees.

Children's laughter filled the air.

"It's really interesting how advanced they are," spoke the first woman, fiddling idly with her watch which she had taken apart for the sake of reassembling as she conversed. "It's nice seeing them interact; Trunks is talking more to Goten than he has to anyone else. He needs a peer, I guess. A friend would be better. He doesn't have much to do around here than rip things up and terrorize the robots."

The second woman twitched an eyebrow only minutely, watching carefully to make sure the two creatures didn't get too terribly rough with one another (they were now wrestling across the floor, limbs akimbo.) "You haven't hired a nanny?"

"Can't get a single _one_ to stay more than a day or two." Snort, "One actually went to her doctor with a broken finger. She had tried taking a pair of scissors away from him and he bit her."

"He bit her?"

Sighing, "Would you listen to them? They sound like puppies growling like that. It's not human, the sounds they make sometimes."

The second woman didn't seem particularly pleased about the comment, "Goten, quit that. You're getting too rough."

"Amazing he can already understand a command like that. I know you don't like when I mention it but they _are_ more developed than normal kids their age, mentally _and_ physically. You know, when Son-kun's brother Radditz showed up, he was surprised Son-kun didn't recognize him. It took a while after that to realize Son-kun would have last seen him when he was still just a _baby_. Saiya-jin must have incredible memories." A pause of consideration, "Maybe any of them could learn as fast as Gohan if they got their minds off fighting long enough to try. They learn techniques faster than humans; Yamcha says it's physically impossible for him and the other humans to keep up with them, even if they go through the same amount of training-"

"Listen to this," the second woman said without acknowledgement, "Goten. Look at Mama... Ma, ma, ma, ma-"

"Ma ma ma ma!" The infant was quick to respond with.

The first woman clapped, and was quickly mimicked first by the smallest creature, and then the second smallest joined in for competition, "That's incredible! He's talking already, too! He's so adorable. Remember when Son-kun used to smile like that?"

The second woman's mouth pinched, but then smiled nostalgically, "Yes, though he had a lot more teeth."

"What are we talking about?" A male voice filled the room, though the 'w' sounds were made by pushing bottom lip between teeth, making it 'Vat are ve talking about?'

Before the first woman could reply the second woman answered with, "We're discussing preschool." She ignored the first woman's questioning looks.

"Ah. My father sent me to a-," he paused, shook his head and said, "But then, my father probably wouldn't make a good example."

"Surely you're not saying the man who took to killing kittens and puppies is a _bad_ influence," a second male voice entered the room.

The first man turned a shade darker, whirling around, "Oh, _would_ you go to hell?!"

"Oh, _vould_ I?" The second man mimicked, and one could swear the blue cat perched atop his shoulder smiled a bit. (Madness.)

The first woman slammed her watch down on the table, where it burst apart (_sonnavah_...), "You two're worse than the _babies_." (The two creatures, during the while, had continued tussling, and were currently hidden beneath a table, concealed by a table cloth. Their inhuman growling could be heard within.) She put a finger up in warning when the first man looked about to defend himself, on the verge of emitting, "He started it!", and she went on, "You, act like a proper _guest_ on my property. And _you_-" she turned her attention to the second man, who was stroking his feline companion and whispering softly to her. She couldn't quite keep her stern expression when she said, with an I'm-trying-to-fight-it grin, "You might be beyond 'guest' but at least _try_ behaving like you have a _few_ decent cells in your body."

"Can't." Answered simply, "Darling Puar is my only conscience."

The first man bit the bait, "No wonder you're a heathen, then, depending on a carnivore-"

"You eat meat, too, dumba-"

"Humans are _omnivorous_, not _carnivorous_, you uneducated savage; we could not survive if we did not temper our diets with fruits and vegeta-"

"You do realize I don't care, right?"

"You-!"

The second woman, by far the smallest of the four of them, suddenly stood and faced them. All conversation ceased; both men had come to recognize that stance as a forewarning, "You're going to set a bad example with all this fighting. Both of you, shake hands like mature _adults_."

Though they had the decency to look ashamed when she squarely met their eyes (her face said she was well accustomed to cowing large, powerful men), their lips twisted together with something a trite more derisive when they faced each other. The second man extended his hand first, rather swiftly, a nasty smile contorting the scar at his jaw, "Fine. Buddies?"

The first man studied the offering for a moment, then visually scaled the arm to look into the twinkling, mischievous eyes (both pairs, the man's and the cat's) before tentatively clasping the offered fingers in his own. He winced at the sudden pressure that mashed his knuckles together and jerked him forward until they were almost nose to nose. (What sort of power did this man _have_?) and tightened his lips together, almost having to put his forehead against the other's to compete for the limited space between their faces, not wanting to give even a millimeter, "Ya... 'Buddies.'" He managed a rather princely, condescending grin, though he felt queezy.

The growling was suddenly the only sound in the room, and all four adults traced the noise as the two creatures tumbled out of their hiding place to sprawl across the floor. Finding itself the object of so much abnormal attention, the larger of the two was quick to inform them: "Ksh!" The second creature studied the first very curiously then, tentatively, looking back at the adults, added its own "Ksh!", much to the approval of the larger.

"You can let go of me now," the first man said, using his free hand to remove the few mussed strands of red hair that had gotten in his eyes. The second man released him in a hurry, opening his mouth to make a likely very inappropriate comment (it was very easy to one-up the first man; he was bred to be civil and diplomatic, which made vulgar counter strikes all the more pleasing to release.)

"Oh, go someplace else!" The first woman said, throwing up her hands as though to frighten away a large animal. The two creatures on the floor were quick to mimic her, hissing and growling. "Imagine! Mature _men_!" She said, quite loud enough to be heard by the two departing males, already aware of the weakness of their wills in comparison to the two petite women.

In their absence, the first woman turned to the second, "And why bother lying to him?"

The second woman, shaking a rattle in a futile attempt to distract the two creatures, who had begun systematically gnawing on either end of the soggy purple Night-Night: "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We were not discussing preschool." She attempted, in her mild irritation, to pull the blanket from the two creatures, starting a rather evenly-matched tug of war between herself and the dual power, "I don't see why you'd need to hide the fact that we were talking about Goku... or... how, _ung_... s-_strong_ these two are-ah!" She had finally won the tugging match, which disrupted her balance, nearly sending her tumbling to the floor. She flicked pale hair back into place, patting it down.

She second woman flopped down onto the davenport, deciding to ignore the episode, "Because I don't _want_ him to know we were talking about _either_ topic. I prefer not to remind him..."

"Remind him what?" She dangled the blanket to coax the creatures to swipe after it, "That Goku existed? That he wasn't human? That his children are as alien as he was? You really shouldn't bother; it's not like it's a secret that can actually be kept. He'll find out sooner or later-"

"I'm not trying to keep it _secret_, I just want him to think of our family as being normal and human and entirely capable of being civilized contributors to society-"

"_What_ are you talking about?" (The creatures had retrieved their prize, so she left it, joining the second woman.) "I'm sorry, but your family is _not_ normal. And neither is mine for that matter..." The larger of the creatures was skeptically studied, not without a small element of... longing. Longing for something she could better understand. Longing for a creature that could by sympathized with, and sympathize in exchange. "The only thing that makes you appear normal are all of these lies your orchestrating-"

"Oh drop it," said glumly, "How are things going with that... man, Vegita?"

Chuckling, "You're really desperate if you're asking about _him_." Pause, "I don't want to talk about him. He's being an absolute pain. I swear, it's like he has cabin fever or something. He's endlessly irritable, constantly threatening to pick fights with just about every able-bodied fighter I know-- there's simply not enough people on the planet that could even survive a fight with him! I wish he would just take another pointless exodus into space like he used to... just cool off."

"... he'd just vanish? Like that?" Attempting to pretend she was having a normal conversation.

"Yeah, but we stopped _making_ the spaceships; Papa hadn't been able to perfect the means of _powering_ the ships, so a lot of money was going into just fueling them... and I mean, enough money that you could really _notice_ it when taxes came around. I'll tell you this, though, since we stopped making him his ships he's been-" She looked at the children a moment, "He's been P-I-S-S-E-D, if you understand me. That was pretty much his only outlet. Now... he's acting like a big angry dog that doesn't like being fenced into one yard."

"What would he do up there?"

Shrug, "Who knows? But that's where he figured out how to go Super Saiya-jin. Just liked going up there and isolating himself to think, I guess. And train. And..." Another hesitation, unsure if she should be offering the information, "And he would fight out there, too. Space provides limitless opponents, and more than once while employees were cleaning out the ship after he returned they would find... blood. Body parts."

Grimacing, "That's disgusting."

"Tell me about it." A flash of thought, "Oh! I'm glad you brought it up. Speaking of means to power spaceships -- among other things...-- I've been meaning to ask you if Gohan couldn't come over and help me with some things-"

Bluntly. "Forget it. You're _not_ sending Gohan into space again."

You could almost see a light spark up in her face, "Hey, I bet he _could_ power a spaceship, and for free! If we could just find a way to contain his chi outside of his body-"

"No." The second woman was leaning somewhat aggressively toward the first, now.

Quickly amending, "Oh, don't worry about it. That's not what I had in mind; I just want to try a few things and Gohan's the only fighter that would be willing to participate, see, what I'm planning-"

"Just promise me you won't, in any way, let Gohan into space again." Not letting it go just yet, "You won't encourage him to, and you won't _allow_ him to."

Somewhat testily, "Fine, whatever. I just thought the kid could stand to learn what it's like in a working environment. I would pay him and everything. Actually, I would _prefer_ him to stay on the planet -- it's hard studying anything if your subject is a couple thousand miles away. But whatever. Forget it."

The two sat in silence, both arms crossed, both leaning back in the couch. Both ignoring as the two creatures took turns losing and finding one another beneath the Night-Night.

Final, the first woman, not truly sincere about reneging: "Okay, look, I promise not to let him set a foot off the planet's surface. Okay? Not a single hair on his head." Not quite enjoying the way she was caving into demands, "Though I don't know what you're getting so crazy about; he made it back okay."

Okay? The second woman seriously considered saying. Okay that he was chronically tense and jumpy, night and day for at least a month, hardly sleeping and glancing furtively around at odd moments. Okay that she could feel his chi-sense licking around the area, just in case, expecting danger to be sneaking up on them. Okay that he would, at intervals, flinch and look off toward the Capsule Corporations, chuckle abashed to himself and explain only, "Sorry, Vegita-san's chi spiked for a second. Kuririn and I had to spend a lot of time _hiding_ from him, so I get a little nervous someti- ... please pass the potatoes. Dinner is delicious." Okay that he would remain glued to the window for hours, either watching for his father or watching, just watching, just to make sure something dangerous wasn't creeping wetly across the yard, breathing heavily-- "Gohan is not going into space again. He didn't do any of his homework last time." She crossed her arms.

That was final.

* * *

_-'s amazing? I've found Vater's dragon ball already! It was a bit farther north than what's comfortable to survive; it was at the bottom of a frozen lake. I had to cut a chunk of ice out before I could swim down after it, though now I have to take the rest of the day off to recover from the hypothermia (it took a while to realize I was sick; I can never tell when I have a fever.)_

_I'm finding that it's very difficult to understand what is healthy and what is not with my body, my particular breeding considered. What is normal for a Saiya-jin is not for a human, and vice versa. I don't know what an average body temperature for myself would be. A human's is around 98.5°F. Vater's was significantly higher; ranging in the 100's easily (though he was never cooperational when I tried studying him, so I don't know.)_

_Mine seems to vary by the day; it's not uncommon to wake up at 103° (it gets higher when I'm sleeping or digesting), and go to bed the next night at 99.2°._

_(I know this because a few years back I made a chart for a whole week documenting my body temperatures during different parts of the day; it got nearly up to 110° on the days I was healing from training with Vater and Meinen Lehrer.)_

_I've traveled a ways south to warm up, and the shaking has already stopped, though my extremities are still a little pale (which is a good change from their previous blue-gray.) Once they turn red -- that's when the blood flows back to them, they'll hurt too -- I'll be fit to travel again. Sorry for the messy handwriting, I can't feel the pen!_

_I'm feeling amazingly happy!_

_I hope Goten's doing okay; I've been thinking about him the most of everyone at home. I hope he doesn't forget me!_

_I can hardly wait to see the look on Meinen Lehrer's face when-_

* * *

The man read the letter aloud in rapid German as he stamped the snow off his boots, grimacing, trying to pin his crimson hair down as it blew in the frigid wind that chased him through the door way, snow stuck to his head, his eyebrows, his lashes, closing the door quickly behind him, jerking off his coat, his scarf, removing his gloves, flinging them onto the shelf over the fireplace, all the while taking turns between reading the letter aloud and simply ranting in the same language, finally flinging the paper to the nearest surface -- a table -- smacking it with the palm of his hand, then just leaning over it and growling downward. 

It was still early morning, though it was looking unlikely to get any lighter than the dim twilight already outside. Another day spent under the iron curtain of clouds.

She was enjoying the display quite thoroughly, though she didn't understand a word of what he said. (Well, that was a lie. She recognized words like "_Scheisse!_" and "_Verdammt!_" well enough to catch that he wasn't happy, and was being vocal about it...)

"Yowl." She informed him, one ear flattening to express her own displeasure, readjusting herself atop the large, warm bundle of blankets that covered the couch. 

"I'm going to _murder_ my father, Cat." He said to her in response, snatching up the paper and holding it before her for inspection. "And then I'm going to _murder_ Beauregarde, and then I'm going to _murder_ Genevah, and then I shall dance in their _blood_." She flattened her other ear down, prickled her whiskers and _hissed_, not particularly wanting him to get any closer in his right state. (Though she found his accent particular thick today, which made him strangely alluring.)

Throwing wide his limbs he fell into an easy chair and sank until his posture looked half broken, his wrists on the armrests. He glared at his knees.

She watched him, ears swiveling like radar, eyes wide. The first name she was acquainted with; Beauregarde Jackson was a half brother to Prince Jondalar (one of, she was finding, _many_ children born out of wedlock. Seven had been confirmed, though there were at least ten others, ranging in ages from seven to thirty, all _claiming_ to be sired by Emperor Dunadar.) Actually, Jondalar was the only known heir born from the emperor's _wife_ -- an empress of a neighboring kingdom -- which was what put him as next in line for the throne. From the documents she could find, Beauregarde would be the next heir after Jondalar, being the second eldest and the only other spawn with noble birth (born of a duchess from a rather obscure little providence up north.)

But...

"Who's Genevah?" Lord Yamcha appeared, sliding the top-most portion of blankets (which she was still occupying) off his head, where he had been sleeping, opening an eye, as though by some inner prompt she had sent to him. She rolled over lavishly as his exposed hand sought and caressing her silky belly.

The prince (having suffered more than a few quasi-conniptions when the bandit had emerged in similar fashions on other early morning occasions) no longer even stalled in his momentum, "To put it in words a flea-bitten vagabond such as yourself can comprehend, an absolute _bitch_." Pause, "Now that you're gracing the conscious world, you can go away. You reek like wet dog."

She began to purr, scooting closer to the exposed portions of Yamcha's skin, curling herself into what her human accomplice referred to as her 'pie shape', tucking nose under tail, in the crook between his neck and the couch, kneading his throat with her paws as she shamelessly eavesdropped, "Like a sheltered brat like you knows what a dog even smells like." He looked at her for silent confirmation of his next barb, and she twitched the end of her tail in signal, "And at least I smell _normal_. Isn't it illegal to use animal products in your perfume now? Or has Daddy neglected obeying _that_ rule as well."

A corner of his princely mouth upturned in disgust, "It's not perfume, imbecile, it's cologne, though I'll forgive your slip, considering your limited exposure to _class_. I would suggest, though, that you avoid talking about political matters that you obviously lack the mental capabilities to grasp them; try sticking to areas that don't involve much thought process. Like baseball." And then, just to make it final, he hurled, "And I can't help but feel robbing people at sword-point is a little more illegal than processing a few animals into something far more useful than they were in life."

She sank her talons into his jaw (which had gone tight), just to warn him from losing his temper, and he leveled out and sought a better course, cramming a knuckle into an eye as he sat up. She was quick to take his place, where the pillows were still warm. "You're certainly in a nasty mind. Who's the letter from?"

The prince returned his aggression to his knees, pounding a fist into them, "My father. Though likely those two snakes put him up to it-"

"The bitch and..."

"The bitch and the illegitimate half-brother."

"Who you want to kill."

"Who I want to _murder_."

A yawn; with the down comforter, doubled-over polar plus blanket and quilt, he did not feel the need to beshirt himself at night, and she enjoyed watching his abdominals ripple as he bent over backward and stretched. "And dance in their blood."

"_Frolic_ in their blood."

"Nice. So who is she, an ex?"

Curled lip twitching, "Something like that."

A dry snort. "I know _that_ story." Then, with venom, jerking his body one direction, showering the room with series of pops as his vertebrae aligned, "Woman are brutal."

"_Woman_ indeed." Came an answer. Eyes did slide over, "_Jesus_, you're beat up."

All three of their eyes went to the sleepy man's torso, which _was_ rather peppered with scars, "Well, yeah. Not every family can afford private trainers. I sort of had 'on the job training' when I first learned to fight." Wolfish grin, "And fence."

There was silence for a moment, as the two men once again measured one another.

She was the only one that noticed the soft pad of slippered feet drift down the hall, and the matriarch of the household filled the doorway, wearing a thick wool robe over her fleece pajamas, her hair sloppily collected around one shoulder. She blinked blearily as she took in first the shirtless man (the sight of large portions of flesh was so hard for humans to not notice... though perhaps an animal would look twice were a fellow animal shaved of their fur...) She then turned her head to note the cat, quite blue in contrast with the orange sofa, as it daintily scaled the shirtless man to sit atop his head like a blue hat. Then moved perspective on to the disheveled prince, bags under his eyes from a night ill-slept, his fiery hair wet and clingy from his trek through the raging blizzard outside.

She blinked rapidly a few times, straightened her robe and erected her posture, "You're all early risers this morning." She looked embarrassed; rarely was she caught before having had time to primp.

Jondalar was quick to snap back to the issue that brought him over; rage resuming, "I was woken up this morning -- _before_ the crack of dawn -- by a messenger, who had snowmobiled here to _personally_ deliver _this_ to my door." He held up the somewhat-wrinkled, water-spotted paper he had brought with him. "It's _another_ letter from my father!" He jerkily held the letter towards her which she hesitantly accepted before, after glancing at it, saying, her mood not responding well to the early-morning greeting, "I can't even _read_ this."

He snagged it back and began translating haltingly from German, "Dear _son_, I'm just writing to remind you that I'm not getting any younger and I still request your company and the company of your bride and her sons. Before I die. Or before I just decide you have gone missing and crown someone else instead. It seems your position has become somewhat more coveted _these past couple years_-" By this time his voice had raised to a fevered pitch and, as though by magic, the note was reduced to a crumpled ball of rubbish, which he proceeded to work with both hands before rendering it in two, then plowing his fingers through his hair, "Where _is_ your son? It's been _weeks_ now!"

"How would I know _that_?!" She was quick to respond, raising tone to match his. "He has a lot to do and I don't keep a _tracking device_ on him."

"How much is there for one boy to do?! My father won't even let us through the gates if he thinks he's being denied _anything_ he's asked for -- If we were depending on that kid to supply us with our daily flesh we would have starved by now!"

Nuzzling her wet nose into Yamcha's ear, she subaudibly mentioned that most of the hunting Gohan was doing would be to feed his own voracious appetite anyway, not everyone else's. He chuckles under his breath in response.

"I'm _sure_ he's getting everything done as fast as he can, Jondalar!" She was wringing her hands; anyone that knew her would have been aware of her own personal anxieties toward having her son missing for more than a day or two. Truthfully, it was impressive she had even let him leave without a fuss, and her behavior was downright commendable at her being able to keep the true goal of the boy's hunt -- dragon balls -- a secret without needing to be prompted to bite her tongue.

"I know, I know, I'm... _sorry_. But that _man_..!" He was balling his fists at his temples, "I swear to god Beauregarde's been waiting for a chance like this! I could be disinherited!"

Come to think of it... it was becoming apparent that this whole situation wasn't really fun anymore. They had decided to stay here to help _Gohan_. But he wasn't around at the moment... She rubbed cheeks with Yamcha to get his attention, and he nodded minutely in agreeance. 

Man and cat slipped from the room. They enjoyed the luxury of being entirely ignored as the two royal heirs discussed their courses of action. They packed what few items they had around, leaving just enough luggage behind to make it plain that they would likely be returning within a week or two, to check in and see if the company had returned to a somewhat more favorable surrounding (namely, if the boy had returned.) Chichi was more than able to train herself now anyway so-

* * *

He was not focusing his chi. He wasn't even trying to; suspended in the air, ankles crossed beneath him, hunched over whatever it was he was writing. The sun, the wind, the high altitude. The eternally consistent temperature (couldn't fault his other godly half for the place's construction.) Looked down off the edge into endless fields and mountains and valleys of substantless, intangible clouds, all drifting below, white and opaque. To jump, a man would have time to consider their life's worth many times over before they reached the ground; to reach up one could almost feel as though they were to put their hand against the very fabric of the ozone layer. 

_What _was he writing?

The man felt a small urge to snatch the bound papers away and fling them over the edge. This was torture. He'd never thought it would be boring when the boy was visiting because he always assumed he, himself, would have the boy's full attention, whether they were meditating, or sleeping, or arguing (oh, they had had a few good arguments, on fundamental aspects. "Second chances should not be given." "They worked for you-" "Do _not_ utter your next word." "... but-" "Raise your fists, kid, you have way too much time to talk for a-")

"Don't you have to go home?"

Those eyes were even larger and rounder than his fathers, though not so with the smile, "No, it's okay. I'm ahead of schedule."

Hn. So his visit was just part of a schedule. Frustrated, he attempted a second question (it was supposed to be the other way around. The boy was supposed to fuss and fret and ask his questions and turn tricks to try gaining a smile, a pat on the head, a gleam of approval. He wanted the boy to be more immature; it was easier to understand than the quiet creature now sharing his fantastic vantage point.) "What are you writing about?"

"You... the world. I don't know... _Mutter_-"

"Who?"

"... Mother. Excuse me."

"Hn."

A torn shred of orange fabric was caught in a breeze and dragged rapidly over the edge. They were currently taking a break; the past four or five hours had been devoted to combat, and both of their clothes were showing a good amount of wear.

... they never used to take breaks.

"I really don't want to go home, either. I like it here. It's peaceful..." Added, shyly, "And y'know... you're here."

"Hn." That was better. The portion of his consciousness that was Kami appreciated the divine irony of depending on a mere child to entertain him. How far the evil had fallen... Mentioning, "If you're writing trash about me I'll break your arms."

He got a chuckle in response. "I'm not writing anything bad about you." Glancing at him again, not the least bit intimidated, "I'm just writing... stuff. Things I can't say out loud. Boring - hey!" The journal had been ousted and arms -- which were growing longer and more slender than they used to be... -- were extended, trying to retrieve it. "Y-... you can't read it anyway, it's in Germa-"

"A Kami is not worth his salt if he doesn't know all the languages his planet's people speak." He jerked it out of the boy's reach in a gesture expressing irritation, smacking the grasping hands away. Now this was the type of amusement his inner-demon enjoyed. He was being petty in a way innocent enough to not disturb his other portions' consciences.

He pretended to not care, hiding his curiosity as he flipped to the last page of writing, carelessly skimming, "_-Vater always said that power isn't everything and right now I would agree with him, because though I'm still stronger than meinen Lehrer, I'm sure that if he put his mind to it he would still be able to find a way to kill me. It's kind of relieving; I really, really don't want to be better than him and-_"

Just as carelessly he tossed the book into the boy's lap, saying only "Hn." Quickly it was hugged to narrow chest, looking up hesitantly, like he used to do when he was little and had just slipped out, "Aw, stop callin' yourself evil, Mr. Piccolo, you're not such a bad guy!"

"S-see? Just boring... unnecessary.. stuff." Quickly, the boy slipped his pen behind his ear and uncrossed his ankles, resettled his weight to the white tiles beneath him and, in a trot that finally exhibited his age, vanished into the little palace behind them. Was he taking it for granted, being allowed to stay in God's house, in his own little guest room? Tracing his unique signature of power as it roamed within the walls, encountering the new little Kami, Dende... Even at this distance his sharp hearing could vaguely catch the muffled sounds of their voices as they spoke to one another. No, it wasn't for granted... he wasn't just a friend of the old Kami (or at least with the merged entity that _contained_ the old Kami) but he had saved the life of the new Kami as well. And that was baring the rapport the two of them shared as the only children involved in the planet's crucial happenings.

In his absence, thoughts: Years ago, in his fully-demon self he would feel complimented. Now, with a few extra opinions that weren't necessarily his own, he wasn't... _upset_... really. Still flattered, maybe mildly irritated at the reminder that he was, indeed, no longer the stronger of the two of them... Not one of his inner-strings of conscious, however, could pinpoint exactly what it was. But he didn't feel comfortable knowing his pupil had written the words so casually.

In the boy's return, before he could try prattling explanations: "Your reflexes are shot to hell." And then for good measure, "And your left is getting clumsy."

"Ah- right." Hesitation before explanation, "It hasn't entirely... worked right since, ah, Cell." Looking over his shoulder. Over the edge. At his feet. Lamely, "Y'know."

Continuing, "Your coordination is getting off and you don't pay enough attention to potential opening." Glaring, maybe frustrated, as the boy's legs were drawn off the ground and crossed, floating. "Do you _ever_ train yourself ?"

A rather bland smile, "You sound like Vegita-san."

"_Don't_ compare me to him." A green knuckle popped in warning.

The bland smile was gone. "... Sorry." There was suspicion that the down-turned head was to conceal his face, not express shame. "... Piccolo-san, you know I-"

"- don't like to fight. Fine. But though you're coordination... reflexes... _talent_," (he spat the last word), "are all going to suffer, I said nothing about your power going down, because it's _not going to_." Pause, groundless suspicion, "Maybe that's why you don't bother. Because you take your strength for granted."

"It's not like that at all." His round eyes looked somewhat hurt in a way that said _'and you know it'_. "It's that I don't want to get any _stronger_."

"That doesn't matter; you're of the rare cases where training is not to get stronger, it's to temper what strength you already have. You were born with your power - _no_, don't try telling me you didn't want to be. What matters is that you are able to control it as you get older, rather than ignore it and eventually let it control you." Eyeing him up and down, appraising, weighing his worth, "Obviously you're not going to maintain yourself on your own. Transform for me."

A grimace fought valiantly down. "... I would really prefer n-"

"I don't care." He didn't enjoy being refused. "The Super Saiya-jin is your best means of controlling and accessing the brunt of your power."

Shuffling uncomfortably, "Ah, yeah. It's just that... I..."

"...," Finally sinking in, somewhat incredulous, more frustration, "You haven't been Super Saiya-jin since he Cell Games, have you."

Concretely looking downward, "... yeah."

Were he a lesser man, he would have dragged his hands over his face in exasperation. So it had been over a _year_ since he'd last... "Super Saiya-jin. Now."

Not looking particularly pleased, but not one to argue much, eyes paled, hair jumped, chi blossomed blue to saffron. Quickly, the fiery battle chi abated, leaving a bleached but ultimately unchanged boy. "See? I don't think I _can_ lose control of it. Not this form, anyway. I went nearly a whole year where the only time I _wasn't_ transformed was when I was asleep. Control isn't the problem. I just... don't like it."

"Hn." It was typical that Son would think up such a genius regime -- after all, if the boy considered his transformed body "the norm" he would be more likely to advance past it when in a rage instead of just to it. "Fine. Now the second one."

Pause... head canted, "I'm sorry?"

"The second transformation." Feeling borderline angry now, "Don't make that confused looks. I'm kicking your teeth in if you try pretending you don't know what I'm talking about."

Quick to mollify, "No, no I know what you're saying but..." Getting more jittery, picking up the increasing levels of hostility. Transformed muscles showing no hint that they had spent the majority of the year seated behind a desk. Admitting reluctantly, "I... don't... really know how to do that form."

Unphased, "You haven't tried." Frustrated, "You're just _trying_ to make this difficult."

Mouth working for a moment, trying to orchestrate a good rebuttal, deciding that even if it _was_ good it wouldn't be worth the continuation of this disagreement. Heaving a sigh upward, temporarily blowing pale hair from eyes, caving in and not being particularly proud of it, "... I'll give it a shot." 

The gentle breeze was again disrupted by lighted torrents. He put his booted feet against the surface beneath him again, needing to ground himself, hunched over, balled fists.

Standing skeptically back, observing the process in silence. As little as his pupil understood his own powers of conjury and bodily manipulation, he did not personally understand the mechanics of this... whole... transformation process. When he'd expressed subdued interest on the topic years back, Son had explained as best he could; some rot about anger and chi and reaching one's own limit and a single-minded goal, with room for no other thoughts (a state he'd once called "pure-hearted" until Vegita went and blew it out of the water) and...

The blue crisscrosses of vein were visible through the boy's face, whose skin had now gone from pale to translucent, contorted in what must have been pain. Watching, his chi now had gone unstable, popping, his sharp little teeth bared to the gums, fists clutched, muscles so taunt they looked about to snap like rope and burst out of flesh; so caught up in the display the subtle changes went initially unnoticed. (A step back was taken, just to be sure he wouldn't be in the way incase anything... unexpected happened.) Twitching shoulders had gone broader; arms a fraction longer, hair realignment being the final confirmation that things had indeed changed; extended hairline; more pronounced brow line, eyes somewhat more narrowed--

"That wasn't so hard, now was it."

Though he knew the comment wasn't helpful, and though he knew it was in this form the boy, who had never even before _thought_ to go against commands of his superiors, had blatantly disobeyed his own _father_, he had not expected the... vacant, somehow condescending look he was given for it. "For someone watching it, maybe." And then the severe gaze directed outward, dismissively, unfocused, like it wouldn't have mattered if someone were holding a piece of paper against his nose because he wouldn't focus on it anyway.

The situation considered, it was thought best _not_ to swat him for cheek. "And?"

Pupiless green eyes looked back at him sharply (his body simply moved too fast; every movement he made simply... occurred.) "... And what, Piccolo-san?" He was pushing his jaw forward, making his frown look almost pouty, "I can't answer a vague question like that."

Though the answer was coming somewhat clear, "_And_ are you in control?"

The green eyes closed, expressing some otherworldly restraint, and slowly face was turned away, disinterested again. It might have been the upswept hair. Or the straight-backed posture that stuck his chest out (he'd adopted the posture from his father), or perhaps it was just the angle of his jaw and the way his nose was up and eyes closed. But the little bastard looked arrogant.

And... it wasn't looking like he was going to answer.

A small portion of sweat had begin to build up at the corners of his eye ridges, "... now change back."

Only one eye opened in response, heavily lidded, opening just enough to show he was indeed rolling his eyes, conveying '_You were the one who asked me to change in the first place._' There was a pause, and the corner of the boy's mouth twitched, and somewhat less-severely he resigned to reply, "... hai, Piccolo-san."

It took far less time and fanfare to power down; simply _fuff_, and his upswept hair fell like dying flames of fire to the burnt logs beneath. The down-ward movement was distracting enough to draw attention away from the fact that his entire body had gone down a few inches as well, not just size-wise but also because his legs had partially given out. Four green fingers caught his shoulder just in case he might plummet over the edge of the Lookout.

"... Thanks." Balance was regained. Back of a wrist shakily ran over a forehead.

"How do you feel?" Concern was raising its head; the boy looked quite suddenly drained; though his face was retaining normal color, the flesh beneath his eyes was dark.

Fingertips dug into eye sockets, "Ex_haust_ed." Hands through hair, from forehead to nape of neck, "It's harder to maintain, now. Even _in_ the form it was straining. Maybe you're right, and maybe my chi simply isn't going to abate. But my body... I don't know. I couldn't tell in the regular Super Saiya-jin form, but that second one... It was hard to hold. I doubt I'll be able to make that form by next year."

Serious disconcertion, "You should _not_ sound so relieved." It was noted that the boy's hands hung limp, and eyes half-mast. He did not understand transformations, but he had at least come to grasp that Super Saiya-jin transformations were very different from full moon transformations, or those made by Freeza. As both Son and the boy had admitted on different occasions, some transformations are natural. But Super Saiya-jin was not. It was (if he understood it right) what the body changed itself into simply to survive the next step up in power.

Another wane, useless smile, "But I _am_ relieved."

"Why? What sick pleasure can you derive from knowing that the next time you get angry enough you'll simply _explode_ because your system can no longer handle the built-up power?" The thought turned his stomach; neither he nor Son had been able to fully estimate the heights the boy could attain. There was possibility (if indeed each transformation was just another step up after reaching the limit of one form) that this boy, and any Saiya-jin in general, _had_ no actual limit. No peak they had to stop at.

Useless smile again shot down, "I'm not going to _explode_, Piccolo-san." At the skeptical look, lips pushed together into a bloodless line as he made a very sharp, rather effective point, "Cell demonstrated what all it takes these days to get me _that_ angry. I'm no longer a little kid who has destructive_ temper tantrums_ when he gets emotional anymore."

... it was a very good argument. It had taken... torture, shock, terror, witnessing the beating of essentially every adult he'd come to respect, and then a few more good shocks to push him into a fit of unplanned terrible power.

When he was younger, it used to only take _a good scare_ to bring out its equivalent.

He was considering giving an acknowledgement of the valid point when he was beaten to the punch, "... though maybe we can work out a compromise." The boy held his chin between thumb and forefinger, "I have been a little concerned about misusing my power unintentionally. Um, actually, I was wondering if you couldn't... ah, make some weighted clothes for me. It would help keep my power a little more in check, but I imagine it would also keep my body from dropping beneath at least a minimum in strength."

"Hn." This time he was smiling, rather proud, "What did you have in mind?"

"Ah... nothing very noticeable, preferably. But definitely something that will hinder the vast majority of... my strength." Neither were going to admit it, but it was becoming apparent with each word he spoke that the boy did not like how far his advanced strength separated him from everyone else. In a way that would never be voiced, his agreement to even weigh himself down could be partially accredited to the Prince Jondalar, who he was going out of his way for to appear normal and human. "Ah... an undershirt; something that can't be seen with another shirt on top. And wrist bands... the boots, too." Not wanting to sound demanding, "... Please."

"We'll see what we can do." He cracked his knuckles and began to conjure.

* * *

A wet, deep breath. Thick, barrel chest heaving. Hands as large as dinner plates, futily twitching at a mattress. Horned head jerking, ripping a hole in the pillow, mouth afroth. 

"... h-help..." 

Not loud enough. Trying to let mechanics take over; trying to stand, trying to get legs off the bed; _can't stop twitching_, moving, muscles spasming.

_Thump_, immense body toppling to the floor.

Expectant silence until... the clatter of feet against the ground, snatches of voices at first, "-you sure-" "-thought I heard-" "-what could-" "-I hope-"

Darkened room ripped in half by a stripe of light that sped across the floor; illuminated: portion of blankets spilling off the bed like frozen liquid, a huge form, unmoving on the floor, wearing moons and stars pajamas, eyes wide and unseeing, lips agape, spilling saliva to the floor.

"_Call the doctor! The Ox King has collapsed!_"

* * *

Cautiously, a window was pushed open. It wasn't breaking in, considering it was his own room. 

Quietly, weight was shifted from the icy air outside into the... not quite-so-cold air inside; closing the window again to keep out the wind certainly helped. No one had shoveled the walk outside; there were no prints that could be distinguished going from the side door to either the Prince's house or the training room, though tracks could easily vanish after an hour or two of the wind and frequent snow fall. He wasn't surprised, then, to find that the house was entirely bereft of life. 

House examined from within with rather even and expressionless face until the note pinned to the door of the refrigerator was located, calmly unstayed from it's magnetic holding and read a few times over.

His mother's neat hand: "_Gohan -- if you get home while we're away, Prince Jondalar and I have gone on an urgent trip to the Fry Pan kingdom. We've brought Goten with us. Unless they've returned since now, we do not know where Yamcha or Puar are. Love you, we'll explain everything when we get back. -- Chichi._"

He turned it over more than once, hoping something else would magically appear on the back while he paced to the living room and sat down; eventually, as is prone to happen in such situations, his mind supplied him with a long series of possible scenarios that could lead to such a sudden evacuation of the house. Yamcha and Puar he wasn't particularly concerned about; appearing and vanishing was their _occupation_. It was simply what they did, and one of the few things you could depend on from the duo. But... His mother was not one to vanish at a moment's notice. Despite his maturity, he hadn't lost the childish pettiness to have a fleeting moment of skepticism involving his mother and the prince running off together to elope, though he battled the idea down with sheer power of rationality. 

Fry Pan Kingdom... could something be wrong with his grandfather? He _was_ rather old, and these past few years of stress had certainly not been to his benefit. But -- he wanted rationality to fight this idea off as well, but it wasn't trying to.

Deciding to avoid jumping to conclusions, he retraced his steps and re-pinned the note to the refrigerator, stepped back, consulted his memory, then moved it a few inches to the right to make sure it was right where he'd found it.

He then went to his room and unpacked.

He ate at a reasonable lunch time.

He pretended to read until dinner, at which time he ate again. He went for a fly around the mountain, the freezing rain making a fair try at plastering his hair down, having more success with his eyebrows and lashes. 

When he got in, he washed and brushed, checked the house over in case someone had shown up while he was out flying, but found nothing.

He went to bed, though he failed to sleep; the night was spent tuning his ears to the first sounds of what could be a jet car or a snow cat or any other vehicle that might be making a valiant try to ascend the gravel road to his home.

When it became apparent the sun was up enough to call it "morning", he got out of bed, performed his toilette routine, breakfasted, and went about opening the family smoke house capsule. The day was spent productively smoking and drying portions of the frozen meats he'd brought home, starting with the fish, which had a history of turning before the other meats. In his down time, he sampled his homemade jerky, experimented different spices, and kept an eye out for marauding carnivores in the area that might be drawn to the tantalizing smell. 

He came inside later that evening, arms laden, and stocked the pantry. Under the setting sun he shoveled the walk to the prince's house and to the training room, and then in an after thought cleared the way to the crude driveway, in case someone return over the night.

He dined on salty, dried meats that night, and licked his fingers as he washed again, ignoring the circles under his eyes from not sleeping the night before.

The process of the summarized day was repeated four or five more times, which few changes. By the third day, all the meats had been treated, at which point he went about working the furs he'd ousted from the animals, scraping them of their fat, working oils into them to make them more pliable, leaving them to dry on racks leaning against the walls of his room.

He didn't sleep well, he didn't think well; his actions were slow and uncoordinated (at least in comparison to his normal performance) and he couldn't read or write well either. For the first time, he did not want to write about how he was feeling in his _Tagebuch_.

Time not spent shoveling was utilized by sitting in the living room, facing the door, and willing someone (anyone, really) to take the initiative to come through it.

It just didn't feel right for this house to be so empty. The bandit and the prince were not arguing outside. His mother was not giving him last-minute instructions in his study schedule as she braided her hair to go and train. Goten was not patting his meaty hands against most given surfaces, giving garbled instructions to random household items in a language yet-undecifered, nor was he following around his older brother, determinedly watching that pair of moving feet, shuffling along on hands and knees.

He was lonely to the point that he would even welcome a visit from Vegita-san, with all the insults and cuffs that would come with it, just for some other warm, living thing to share the space of the house. 

Inevitably, the day finally came that he _did_ heard a motor, quiet and expensive and powerful, plowing up and coming to a stop outside the house; he did not, however, bound to the door as he expected he would have, instead finding himself unable to do more than stand up from his chair before his skeletal structure froze like ill-oiled machinery.

He waited. Listened to the crunch of feet approach.

The prince opened the door, guiding Mother inside, her face buried in Goten's thick hair as he squirmed at the sight of his older brother.

Once the door was finally shut again... an awkward stillness prevailed for a time. Her voice lacking its usual fire, Mother eventually managed to say, "Your grandfather.. has had a stroke. He's.. they've put him in the hospital. He's stabilized and getting the best of treatment.. but.." She pressed her lips together, her forehead wrinkling, "H-his lift side is paralyzed. They don't know yet if he'll recover."

There was a sinking sensation in his intestines, as though someone had increased the gravity, but only in the region beneath his skin, between his ribcage and pelvis bone. Unaware of his own movements, he took a few steps closer, but was finding his eyes glued to his mother's left shoulder, where he could see the prince's hand resting. His arm was around her.

He realized the prince was staring at him. So he stared back. The hair on his neck was standing on end; along his arms, his skin, legs, back, down the bumpy trail of his spine until it ended with at the twisted, melted-wax, purple scar the size of a half dollar: location of his long-severed tail.

Caught up in her own world of concerns, Mother set the child down where he quickly set off to reexplore his domain, and said, "E-excuse me..," as she walked woodenly down the hall to her room, where her sink could be heard turning on.

And still they were staring, neither's expression entirely sure what to betray, what to portray, what to exhibit, what to conceal.

"Well, welcome back then, Jondalar-san."

Twitch at his mouth, "Yeah. You too, Gohan_lein_." 

His mouth was continuing to go without instruction, "I'll have dinner prepared in an hour. You can wash up in the mean time."

"Right. Thank you."

The world moved like bubbling tar, slow and random, as he turned, nearly tripping over his little brother, who had gotten underfoot for the sake of attention, informing him, "Hoo! Hoo!" as he numbly stooped to pat him on the head and tweak his nose.

Hardly a phantom, he glided soundlessly down the hall.

Slipping into his room, he became aware of a rabid inner urge to scream. Or cry. Or even pick up a chair and smash it into the window, or beat it against the wall until only splinters remained. Though he would have liked to be able to do all three the most.

He instead padded inobtrusively back and forth for a few minutes, running hands through his hair, breathing rapidly enough to invite little dancing shapes into his peripherals until he had to sit down.

Not long afterward, he commenced to the kitchen, and put a pot of water on to boil, deigning to let Goten cling to his back like a monkey as he started unloading the refrigerator in preparation for the evening meal.

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